‘Ready to march for a while, eh Tribune?’
Belletor raised an eyebrow.
‘March? March, Rutilius Scaurus? Why would we be marching?’
His colleague smiled knowingly.
‘Some senior officers, Tribune, like to match their fitness against that of their men, to see if they can keep pace with the old sweats through a long marching day. And besides, it’s such a lovely day for a stroll.’
Belletor’s snort of disbelief dripped with his incredulity at the suggestion.
‘A lovely day for a stroll? I shall be riding my horse, and I’d suggest you do the same unless you want to be taken for one of those men that seek the favour of their soldiers by attempting to emulate them.’
Scaurus laughed and turned away.
‘And you, Tribune, might want to consider walking for a while, unless you want to be taken for one of those men whose feet aren’t hard enough to sustain the pace. I can assure you that there are worse things than being taken for an officer who respects his men well enough to share their hardships.’ He raised his voice to parade-ground volume. ‘Shall we be on our way, gentlemen? This Obduro isn’t going to wait around forever!’
Frontinius raised his vine stick above his head, stepping to one side of the long column to be seen by as many men as possible.
‘First Cohort! At the standard march… march!’
As the leading centuries strode out down the road Prefect Caninus turned to Scaurus, gesturing at his men who were waiting alongside their horses, and speaking in a quiet tone intended to keep their discussion private.
‘I wish you good hunting, Tribune. As agreed, I will take my men away down the road to the west again, to ensure that there’s no chance of a traitor in their ranks alerting the bandits to your approach.’
The tribune nodded.
‘Thank you, Prefect, I’ll certainly be happier knowing that we don’t have to worry about whoever it is Obduro might have planted on you. My own mounted detachment will go forward alongside you as far as the junction where the road to Augusta Treverorum branches off to the south, and will then report back to me that the road is clear of any sign of Obduro’s band. It will be good exercise for their horses, and a nice change for their riders from having nothing to do except brush their animals and shovel away their droppings.’
Caninus nodded his understanding, then turned away, shouting orders to his men. Scaurus raised his arm and signalled to Decurion Silus. The decurion saluted and signalled to his men, who promptly mounted and trotted their horses up the column, with Caninus and his detachment following them. Scaurus looked back at Belletor, gesturing to the road stretching away to the west.
‘Your last chance, Tribune. Will you accompany me for a while? Perhaps we might share a discussion about Rome. I’m sure you miss it as much as I do.’
The other man shook his head dismissively.
‘I’ll be riding, thank you. By all means come for a chat when you get tired of slumming it with your soldiers.’
Scaurus turned away with a wry shake of his head.
‘The company of my men is likely to entertain me for longer than you might imagine possible.’
Silus reined in his horse alongside the 9th Century’s marching men, grinning down at Marcus and raising an eyebrow in question.
‘The usual offer is open, Centurion. You could always scout forward with us this morning. I’m sure your chosen man is more than capable of looking after these soldiers.’
The young centurion shook his head.
‘Not today, I’m afraid, Silus. Much as I’d like nothing better than to ride along with you, my duty is here with my soldiers. And besides, to deprive whoever’s riding that monster Bonehead of his mount today would be to condemn him to a day rubbing his feet raw and listening to our full repertoire of songs about cavalrymen and your close relationships with the local wildlife.’
One of the younger soldiers marching beside him was unable to contain himself, and raised his voice above the rattle of hobnails.
‘And sheep, Centurion!’
The century’s watch officer, a one-eyed veteran universally called Cyclops whenever he wasn’t listening, promptly stepped out of the rank ahead of the miscreant and marched next to him with his face inches from his victim’s, bellowing admonishment and imprecation at the top of his voice, much to the young soldier’s dismay and Silus’s pleasure.
‘ Don’t you dare to interrupt the young gentleman when he’s talking to another officer, you nasty little man! I’ll have you shovelling shit on latrine duty for the next month!’ Marcus raised an eyebrow at the decurion, rolling his eyes at the vehemence of the tirade. The watch officer caught a glimpse of the expression from the corner of his eye, but misinterpreted the cause and redoubled his verbal assault on the visibly wilting soldier. ‘And now you’ve upset the officer, you worthless excuse for a soldier. He thinks you’re a prick, the decurion thinks you’re a prick, and I’m fucking certain you’re a prick, which makes you what? Eh?’
‘A… a prick?’
‘A prick, Watch Officer! Come with me!’ He dragged the soldier out of the ranks, putting a booted foot into his backside. ‘Run, you fucker! Let’s see how long you can keep up with the horses, shall we?’
‘Ah, the enjoyment of watching an experienced professional in action. I see man management is still a strong point with the infantry.’
Marcus shook his head in resigned amusement, waving Silus away.
‘You’d best be off to see what’s going on over the next hill. And I’d better rescue that soldier before Watch Officer Augustus puts his severed head on a spear to encourage the rest of my men. Enjoy your day’s scouting!’
The decurion shot him an ironic salute and moved away to rejoin his men, shouting a command and nudging his horse into a fast trot. As the scouts headed for the horizon Marcus turned his attention back to the hapless soldier, already fifty paces up the road with Cyclops in vigorous and noisy pursuit.
‘Hold this for a minute. I need to dig my cloak out and put the bloody thing on.’
Morban passed his standard to the trumpeter marching at his side and reached for the heavy woollen rectangle, thanking the foresight that had made him roll it up and wrap it around his belt. The younger man smirked down at him as he tugged it about his barrel-shaped body with a grunt of satisfaction.
‘Feeling the cold, are you?’
The standard bearer answered in a voice loud enough to be heard over the clash of hobnails, never taking his attention off the brooch’s stubborn pin.
‘Bloody thing won’t close. I knew I should have got this seen to while we were in barracks. The pin’s too short, and the bloody thing’s bent in the middle.’ He shot the trumpeter a vindictive glance, then turned his head and raised an eyebrow to the soldiers marching behind them. ‘A bit like your cucumber, from what I could see of that rather unpleasant act you were performing last night when I walked into the barrack without knocking and giving you time to hide it away. Now have you had enough, or do you want some more, tiny bent cock?’ Morban waited for a moment to be sure that the abashed trumpeter wasn’t going to scrape together enough wit to come back at him with any one of the retorts he would have mustered under the same accusation, then shook his head in genuine disgust. ‘Soldiers with less than ten years’ service should be seen and not heard, I’d say.’ The veteran marching behind him nodded his agreement, his voice a gravelly rasp as he rose to Morban’s game.
‘I knows. Give ’em a few months and they loves to play with the big lads, but they goes all quiet and runs away the second you gives ’em a proper smacking. Shouldn’t be allowed to join in with the fun and games until they’ve done their ten and learned to stand up for themselves. And to hold their beer…’