Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two (18 page)

Marcus’s smile was grim.

‘Oh, they’ve got it, we all do. It just has to be pulled out of them. My friend Dubnus has one method, Rufius, Julius and I are all a little different in style, but we’re all looking to get the same results. By the time we’ve finished with your men they’ll march thirty miles in a day and still be singing their hearts out for the last mile. They’ll stand in line and stop a barbarian charge with the rest of the cohort. I hope they’ll still be archers, but they will be infantrymen, I promise you that.’

The century marched on for another twenty minutes until Marcus judged that they had reached the point he had agreed earlier with Julius. Morban gave the signal for the halt, reinforced by the century’s trumpeter blasting out a single note.

‘Rest break! Water only and leave your field rations alone!’

The Hamians sagged exhausted to the ground for the most part, and Marcus allowed them a few minutes of rest before gaining their attention with three raps of his practice sword on a soldier’s shield.

‘Eighth Century, there is something wrong here. Can anyone tell me what it is? No? A silver sestertius to the man that can tell me. Not you, Morban, you already know the answer.’

The Hamians stared at him and about them, searching with renewed interest.

‘Anyone? No? The answer isn’t out there, it’s right in front of me.’

The Hamians stared at Marcus uncomprehendingly, as he hardened his voice with scorn.

‘The second I called the rest halt you
soldiers
were on your backs without a care in the world. No guards posted, no one worried about anything beyond getting a gutful of water, and no concern for what might be over the next hill. Or waiting for you in that wood.’

He pointed at the treeline two hundred paces distant and blew his whistle in a shrill blast. Armed and armoured men emerged from the trees, forming into a battle line.

‘Lucky for you that’s only the Fifth Century, and not a blue-nose warband screaming for your blood. There are two lessons to be taken from this. One: you take your rest stops standing up from now on, and each tent party chooses a man to stand guard, with the specific duty of watching the ground around them for danger. Now, would anyone care to guess the second lesson?’ The Hamians stared at him blankly, and a feeling of near-despair made the young centurion shake his head. ‘The next lesson, gentlemen, is basic infantry fighting. In two minutes those soldiers are going to charge into our line in exactly the same way the blue-noses will once they get the chance. This is your chance to practice your shield drills from this morning. Form a line!
Move!
’

* * *

Later that evening, with the sun well beneath the horizon and the 8th Century nursing blisters and aches in their barrack, too tired on their return to the fort for there to be any point in archery practice, the centurions gathered for a cup of wine in The Hill’s officers’ mess. Marcus tipped his cup back and called for another with a speed that raised Rufius’s eyebrows. Julius and Dubnus exchanged knowing glances, and Rufius tipped the cup towards him, ostentatiously staring into its emptiness.

‘Anyone would think you’d had a hard day lad, rather than the gentle stroll round the hills that we enjoyed today. Or is there something on your mind, perhaps?’

Marcus blew a long breath out through his lips.

‘What do you think? We march for Noisy Valley tomorrow, and we could be in action against the tribes a few days after that. How in Cocidius’s name are we going to turn them into soldiers before they have to fight for their lives against men that have spent most of their lives getting ready to kill them?’

Julius shook his head, his scorn evident even through a mouthful of dried meat.

‘One day and you’re giving up? Just because my lads gave your boys a gentle spanking?’

Marcus closed his eyes at the memory. Julius’s 5th Century had battered the 8th into submission in less than a minute despite being half their strength. The brutal simplicity of their assault had scattered the hapless Hamians like chaff, and their march back to The Hill had been a sombre plod conducted in resentful silence.

Rufius shook his head on the other side of the table.

‘Our young friend’s dismay is simply the result of inexperience.’

He put his cup down, placing both hands on the table’s scarred surface.

‘Marcus, have you ever taken a century of recruits from raw to trained? Your exploits with the Ninth don’t count. Your lads were already infantry trained, they just lacked the right leadership until you turned up. I don’t doubt your ability to lead experienced soldiers, I’m just asking if you’ve ever been part of turning a collection of farm boys into infantrymen?’

Marcus shook his head slowly.

‘I wasn’t a guard officer for long enough …’

‘… and the praetorians tend to take in men who’ve already had the rough edges hammered off them. You see, taking stupid lazy kids and turning them into fighting men is a bit of an art.’

Julius nodded sagely, and even Dubnus was giving the veteran centurion an approving look.

‘You get them on the parade ground on their first day and you’d swear they didn’t know left from right, much less which end of their new spear has the pointy iron thing attached. All you’ve got is eighty or so individuals, some stupid, some lazy, and all of them utterly clueless. As a legion centurion faced with that, all you’ve got to help you is a chosen man to push them around from behind and a watch officer who, if you’re lucky, has trained recruits before. That and a few simple rules learned from older and possibly wiser men down the years of your service.’

Rufius raised an eyebrow to the other two, both of whom nodded sagely as he continued his lecture.

‘There are only three tricks that a centurion has to perform to turn the average bunch of teenage idiots into trained troops, ready to try their hand against the barbarians. Number one is obvious – he has to drill them in the use of shield, sword and spear in every spare moment, until every possible move, attack or defend, is as natural to them as breathing. That way they’ll do whatever he orders without even having to think about it. Number two, he has to get them fit, ready to run all day if that’s what’s needed, and he has to run alongside them every step of the way or lose their respect. But those are the easy bits, and without trick number three all you end up with is a bunch of fit idiots who know how to sling a spear but can’t see any reason why they should.’

He paused for a drink, aware that every officer in the room was listening now, most of them with faint smiles. He gestured around the mess with his free hand.

‘See, both young Caelius and that battered old bastard Otho both know what I mean. Trick number three is the most delicate and difficult trick a centurion ever gets to try. It isn’t written down
anywhere, because every one of us does it a different way, depending on our personal style and who we learned it from. For some officers it’s the most natural thing in the world, others find it so difficult that they can never really get their recruits to swallow it. I know that I can do it, and every other man in this room knows the same or he wouldn’t be here. I also know that your bow benders won’t learn even the most basic moves properly unless we apply it to them good and hard. I can teach you how to do it if you’ll let me …’

He paused, giving his friend a long stare.

‘But?’

‘You’re a good man. Educated. Cultured. Yes, you’re a trained gladiator and you’ve killed on the battlefield enough times to show you’re a warrior. We all respect that, but …’

Marcus put his cup down, a note of irritation creeping into his voice.

‘Go on.’

‘It’s simple enough. Trick number three is about being a bastard, that’s the top and bottom of it. Your recruits have to know that given the slightest excuse you’ll come down on them so hard they’ll be reaching up to wipe their arses. And Marcus, I’m just not sure you’ve got enough bastard in you to turn these boys around, given the amount of time we’ve got.’

He glanced up as the mess door opened and a bulky figure ducked through it into the room.

‘Oh, Cocidius help me, here comes the Bear for another try at lifting a tent party out of my century.’

The next morning dawned grey and damp, with an insidious drizzle that swirled in the fitful wind and found its way beneath the 8th’s cloaks and into their armour even before the Bear’s 10th Century had stamped down the line to their place at the far end of the cohort. Frontinius, who made a point of keeping his most likely replacement as first spear fully briefed at all times, walked alongside Julius’s 5th Century as they marched down the fort’s steep road to the parade ground, his conversation with his brother officer
conducted in tones too quiet for the soldiers marching alongside them to overhear.

‘So all in all you really don’t know what to make of our new commander?’

The first spear nodded wryly.

‘That’s about the size of it. He hasn’t given me any hint as to his previous experience beyond the positions he’s held previously, which wouldn’t worry me too much if his career wasn’t quite so unusual.’

Julius glanced across at him.

‘Unusual?’

‘It didn’t occur to me at first, but people like him, members of the equestrian class, they follow set paths through their lives. He was prefect of an auxiliary cohort over ten years ago by my reckoning, which would have made him about twenty-five, and that’s younger than is usual for a first command. They’re supposed to do a few years of public service to knock the rougher edges off them before they’re let loose on the army. After that he was a tribune with Twelfth
Thunderbolt
during the war against the Quadi, and then again with the Fifth
Macedonica
fighting the Marcomanni. I reckon he would have completed that last stint a couple of years ago.’

‘And after that …?’

‘Exactly. Nothing at all until he pops up here as an auxiliary prefect again. It’s all wrong, Julius, he should have gone on from his tribunate to command a five-hundred-strong cavalry wing, and by now he should be commanding a full-strength wing like our old friend Licinius, either that or be retired to public service. Instead of which he seems to be going backwards. There are two good-sized questions about our new prefect that I’d like to hear the answers to – for a start, why has he been demoted from his last declared position back to command of an infantry cohort?’

Julius nodded his agreement.

‘And what’s he been doing for the last two years?’

‘Exactly. Something doesn’t add up here, and until I know the answers to those questions I’m not going to turn my back on the man.’

Julius grunted his agreement, then raised a crafty eyebrow.

‘I meant to ask, have you had anyone in front of you asking for permission to marry since we got back from Arab Town?’

The first spear’s face brightened.

‘Funny you should ask, there was a young centurion in to see me only last night. Bright young lad, seems to have found a good woman, a widow, but young enough and with some skills that would make her a valuable person to have around the cohort. He made a persuasive case, for all that we’re only days away from marching back into blue-nose territory and he might be dead in a week. Yes, we had a good chat on the subject.’

‘And?’

Frontinius turned to face him, a mocking smile on his face.

‘Our rules? Just Sextus and Julius, old mates that enlisted on the same day and have always reserved the right to ignore rank and speak our minds to one another.’

Julius nodded.

‘Well, under normal conditions I would, as first spear, be forced to tell you that I must respect the confidential nature of the conversation. Under our rules, however, I can tell you …’

He paused for a moment, drawing out the silence as the 10th century marched past them.

‘Yes?’

‘To mind your own business, you nosy bugger!’

He stalked on to the parade ground with a grim smile at the weather and called for his centurions to brief their troops on the day’s march to Noisy Valley. Marcus turned to face the Hamians, already looking bedraggled in the persistent drifting rain, and found that, unlike on the previous day, he was the sole object of their attention. One hundred and sixty pairs of eyes were fixed on him, their message a combination of anger and misery, and he paused for a long moment before speaking.

‘Good morning, Eighth Century …’ He paused and smiled into their resentment. ‘Today you see Britannia in all its true glory. We get weather like this roughly one day in every five, you’ll be pleased to hear. Today we will be making the march to Noisy Valley, which will get you warmed up soon enough, but before we do let’s consider
yesterday. We marched fifteen miles at the standard campaign pace and nobody failed to finish … even if some of you needed some encouragement along the way.’

He waited for one of the sea of stony faces to crack. Nothing.

‘Halfway through the march we conducted a surprise attack, which, unsurprisingly, didn’t go very well. You were assaulted by a century of battle-hardened soldiers and you lost. Painfully. Some of you have bruises to show for that defeat, and you’ve all got sore feet. It’s raining, you’re cold, you’re wet and you’d like nothing better than for me and my brother officers to drop dead on the spot. If you could stand here and look at yourselves with my eyes you’d see unhappy men, some of you angry, most of you just sullen. And let me tell you, let me
guarantee
you, it’s going to get worse. Today we march to war.’