Frontinius’s step was lively enough but the waiting officers saw the obvious stiffness in his gait and exchanged meaningful glances.
‘You can stop pulling faces at each other when you think I’m not looking. Yes, my bloody knee is still as stiff as a spear shaft and yes, it still hurts like buggery when I bend it first thing in the morning, and not much less at any other time. That’s the price you pay for offering an easy target when there are blue-nose archers within bowshot. All of which is of far less importance than exactly what you’ve brought back from Arab Town. “A double order of tunic lifters” was the term the officer of the guard used when he put his head round my office door five minutes ago… and it doesn’t look like he was far off the mark, for all the nice new armour they’re struggling to keep upright. So, who’s going to enlighten me?’
Julius stepped forward, snapping a crisp salute before walking across to his superior, leaning close enough that his words would be for the first spear’s ear alone.
‘Our rules, Sextus?’
Frontinius shot him a penetrating stare, raising an eyebrow. ‘Our rules? Twice in one year? This ought to be good…’
The centurion nodded to acknowledge his old friend and superior officer’s point.
‘Our rules, then. The Second Cohort has a new prefect, some hothead fresh from Germania with a point to prove. The bastard bribed the Arab Town replacements officer to let him walk off with one of our centuries, which left us with two choices, either to come back eighty men short, or to bring back enough of these Hamians to get us back to full strength.’
The first spear raised an eyebrow, looking out over the centuries paraded in front of him. ‘And you went for numbers.’
‘It wasn’t my first choice. I’ll live with it, seeing as we’ve got them re-equipped somewhat more like soldiers than dancing girls, and given that one of them killed a half-dozen of the local idiots on the way back, but left to me they’d still be sitting in Arab Town wondering why it’s so cold in the middle of summer.’
‘I see. We’ll come back to the local idiots. So exactly whose first choice was it?’
‘Our young gladiator, who else? Oh, I ought to mention that he’s asked a certain lady doctor, recently widowed, if you get my drift, for her hand in marriage. Which, Cocidius the mighty hunter be forever mystified, she seems to have agreed to. You can expect the boy at your table one evening soon now asking for your formal permission.’
The first spear raised a sardonic eyebrow, shaking his head gently.
‘That young man’s been nothing but a source of entertainment ever since Prince Dubnus walked him through the gates, but let’s concentrate on the Hamians for the time being. We’ll worry about the marriage later. I presume he’s intending to practise his transformation skills on his new century?’
Julius nodded sagely. ‘Looks like it. I’m not sure that he understands the difference between what he managed with the Ninth Century and turning untrained men into soldiers, never mind untrained men quite so lacking in muscle. He did persuade Legatus Equitius to cough up the kit to make them look respectable, although they talked him into letting them keep their bows.’
‘Hence the dead idiots?’
‘Yes. Amazing shooting by their chosen man, too, he knocked over half a dozen of them in less time than it takes to tell the story. The fools never knew what hit them until it was too late. They were trying the usual shoot-and-run stuff — in fact they’d already hit us on the road east, killed one man and wounded another. We left him with Centurion Corvus’s wife-to-be in the Noisy Valley base hospital.’
Frontinius snorted without mirth. ‘So, the locals bit off more than they could chew? Good. Perhaps they’ll think twice in future. So, these are useful tunic lifters then, despite appearances?’
Julius shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes lifted briefly to the sky in unspoken comment. ‘They’ll shoot well enough, but the rest of the picture’s just one broken tile after another. They’re nearly all twenty pounds underweight and a hand’s length too short, they handle their weapons so badly the blue-noses will piss themselves laughing if we ever have to put them into a battle line, and their feet are as soft as silk. Or at least they were two days ago. Now they’re just a bloody mess. Like I said, I’ll live with it, and I’ll give Two Knives all the help I can, but I think it’s a lost cause. Two minutes of toe-to-toe with the locals will see half of them dead and the other half running.’
Frontinius nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the Hamian ranks. ‘I can see your point from here. On the other hand, we’re likely to be back in the action before very long, and a double-strength century isn’t a thing I can afford to turn my nose up at. Perhaps we need to allow Centurion Corvus the benefit of the doubt for a little while. Parade them properly.’
Julius spun away, bellowing for the four centuries to come to attention, and the two men waited for a long moment for the soldiers to settle down into immobility under the spirited goading of their watch officers. The Hamians, Frontinius noted, for all their obvious exhaustion, settled first and with a minimum of fuss. Nodding his satisfaction, the prefect paced out towards the Tungrian replacements and walked the front rank with questioning eyes. ‘They still make big lads in Tungria, I see. Nice tidy equipment… you, air your iron.’
The soldier obediently unsheathed his sword, presenting the weapon’s hilt to the officer.
‘Clean, sharp, nice quality too. A good result, I’d say. This is your century, Centurion Rufius? Yes? You’re a lucky man, although
I’m not sure what you’ve done to deserve it. Now, let’s have a look at our archers…’
He walked along the 8th Century’s front rank, assessing their tired but erect stance. ‘Nice armour. New swords and spears too. Well done, Centurion Corvus, good use of initiative to have Sixth Legion re-equip your men, although quite how you got equipment this tidy out of their stores is something of a mystery to me.’
Marcus met his questioning stare. ‘I had a little help from Centurion Rufius, First Spear. Local knowledge still counts, apparently…’
‘Good. Well done, Rufius, I’ll buy you a cup of wine later on for saving our young colleague the trouble of going through that whole “do you know who I am?” routine. This is your new chosen man, I presume, Centurion?’
‘Chosen man Qadir, First Spear.’
‘Thank you. Chosen, might I take a look at that bow?’
Qadir saluted smartly and handed him the weapon. Frontinius tested the bow’s draw, grunting quietly with the effort, then handed it back.
‘I hear that you killed half a dozen men with this earlier today?’
The chosen man nodded.
‘Yes, First Spear.’
Frontinius handed the weapon back to him with a look of respect, then stepped up to address the century, raising his voice to be heard clearly. ‘Soldiers of the Eighth Century, you may have been born and trained in Syria, but you are now part of the proudest and most respected auxiliary cohort on the northern frontier. The First Tungrians have faced battle in these hills many times and always come out on top. Always. We win, gentlemen, no matter the odds. We win, we bury our dead, we mourn and we move on. You will find your comrades hard bitten… uncompromising… and this may be offputting to you, but you will adapt to our way of going about our business. I suggest that you start adapting now, for I fear that your time to do so will be shorter than might have been ideal. Welcome to the war.’
The sun was close to the western horizon by the time the 2nd Cohort delivered forth Prefect Bassus’s murderers. Respectfully summoned by First Spear Neuto, Furius strode out on to the parade ground, where the cohort had stood for most of the day. The soldiers were standing to attention, their faces fixed and sullen. Two soldiers stood out in front of the cohort’s third century, half a dozen of the cohort’s officers arrayed around them. Furius strolled up to the group, eyeing the pair carefully. Both men fixed their gazes on him, both wide eyed and pale with the gravity of their situation. The prefect turned to First Spear Neuto, gesturing to the men. ‘So these are Prefect Bassus’s murderers?’