‘Problem is, you dozy Dacian prick puller, they’ll be honking up all that wine before they’ve done more than a mile. And given that we’re their new Sixth Cohort, we’re going to be ankle deep in last night’s pork before you know it.’
He wisely chose to fall silent before the vine-stick-wielding wrath of their new centurion reached them, spittle flying from the newly promoted officer’s lips as he raged theatrically at his men.
‘Shut the fuck up! The legatus is about to address the legion!’
Scaurus strolled out in front of his command, his uniform as impeccably turned out as the previous day, although the more astute of the Tungrians had already noted the fact that his best boots had been exchanged for the standard-issue infantry footwear, their soles studded with hobnails.
‘Here we go again.’
Quintus spun round from his fond contemplation of the man who had so recently fulfilled his life’s only remaining ambition, by promoting him from the rank of chosen man where, he had become convinced, he was doomed to languish for the remainder of his twenty-five years of service. Legatus Scaurus had made Quintus a centurion, and in turn Quintus was determined to spend the rest of those years living up to the trust placed in him. Faced with four ranks of impassive faces, none of whom showed the slightest sign of any guilt, he drew the inevitable conclusion, swinging his vine stick to land an expert blow into the space where the standard-issue helmet was deliberately cut away to allow its wearer to hear commands in the nightmarish din of battle.
‘Shut the fuck up, Sanga! And don’t try looking innocent on me, soldier, I’m too experienced to fall for your attempts at indig-’
‘Soldiers of the Third Gallic!’
The legatus was speaking, his voice floating across the parade round and echoing faintly from the distant barracks as he repeated each sentence in Greek.
‘I hear you did yourselves proud last night. No drop of wine left unconsumed! No whore left unpleasured! No song left unsung!’
The legionaries grinned smugly, a good number of those closest to the Tungrians cheering up sufficiently to nod and make obscene gestures that they knew would leave the northern barbarians in no doubt as to the prodigious nature of their evening’s entertainment, while others pointed and mimicked the only sexual release that their new fellow legionaries would have been enjoying.
‘And now, having demonstrated that you know how to put on a decent show on the parade ground, you will now demonstrate your prowess at the most essential skill a soldier must possess!’
The Tungrians waited with broadening smiles while Scaurus repeated the statement in Greek, nodding back at the Third’s men knowingly as the easterners frowned, trying to work out what this new challenge might be.
‘Your founder, the blessed Julius Caesar, was famed for his ability to appear out of nowhere at the head of his men, this proud legion included, and to seek battle where his presence was least expected! And do you know how he used to achieve that feat?’
‘Here it comes, you smug bastards!’
Scaurus glanced down the legion’s line to where the Tungrians stood impassively for the most part, his lips twitching in a slight smile at the shouted comment. Close enough to the man to see his lack of concern at the comment, Quintus, whilst clearly aware that Sanga had once more been unable to resist the urge to express his indignation, did no more than shrug and nod his head at the outburst.
‘Your forebears of two hundred years ago were men of iron! They could march twenty-five or thirty miles in a day and then offer their enemies battle, as fresh as if they had covered half the distance at a gentle stroll! You and I, legionaries, will soon take pride in just that same ability, for we will need to cover ground at a prodigious rate once we have crossed the Euphrates!’
The Tungrians were grinning back at their Syrian comrades now, nodding and smiling at the sick looks that were spreading across their ranks.
‘Today, soldiers, we will start gently, to allow the men who have recently sailed from Rome the chance to recover their fitness, and not to be embarrassed by your greater abilities!’
Scaurus’s grin was now open, as he laid down a challenge he knew full well would have his men straining at their collars.
‘Today we will march no more than fifteen miles! Not even a full day’s march at the standard pace!’
He turned to find Quintinus and the assembled tribunes staring at him with expressions ranging from discomfort to outright horror, while Julius stood to one side with an impassive face.
‘Ready gentlemen? Since there are nine of you, I suggest you each take a cohort. First Spear Quintinus, please lead the legion for me today. I intend to march with my Tungrians, and to ensure by my example that they don’t shame themselves too badly after such a long time on board ship.’
He strode away to the Tungrians, nodding to Julius as the Tungrian first spear shook his head in dark amusement.
‘Ready for a run, Julius?’
The older man nodded.
‘A good deal better prepared than these poor bastards.’
Scaurus shrugged.
‘War has a way of teaching bloody lessons to the unprepared. And I need soldiers who can cover ground when needed, not barrack-room slugs.’
He waved to Quintinus in his position at the head of the legion’s long column.
‘Ready, First Spear!’
The legion jerked into motion one cohort at a time, each of the divisions obeying the command of their senior centurions and striding out bravely enough while their wind was still fresh. Quintinus led them out of the fortress and onto the road to the north, setting a brisk pace in the fresh breeze that was blowing from the west.
‘Bloody winter, and it’s still warmer than most summer days back at The Hill!’
Saratos nodded at his comrade’s comment, putting his head back to gulp down the cool air.
‘Is no rain neither. I like.’
‘When we going to start running, sir?’
Sanga ignored both the muttered curses from the men around him and the hard looks that his centurion was shooting at him, grinning broadly at the legatus to indicate that his question was genuine.
‘Soon enough, soldier. I thought a gentle pace might be better for the first two miles, to give you time to stretch out those muscles before we start to speed up.’
He led them along the broad road in pursuit of the cohort ahead of them, quickly closing the hundred-pace gap that had separated the two units, until the Fifth Cohort’s rear rankers were looking over their shoulders in dismay at the grim-faced northerners hard on their heels. After a short while the legion trumpeters blew their horns at the column’s head, and, cohort by cohort, the Syrians upped their pace to the quick march. Already sweating heavily, as their exertions of the previous evening began to take their toll, the legionaries quickly began to labour as the increased pace began to punish their legs and lungs. The Fifth Cohort were soon barely managing to keep up the pace, and Scaurus exchanged a glance with Julius, who simply nodded.
‘Tungrians! Follow me!’
The legatus stepped smartly to his right and began to lengthen his stride, pulling his men along behind him, all sweating freely despite the cooling breeze, but not a single man failed to keep up.
‘Does nobody have a song to offer us?’
Sanga laughed at his legatus’s challenge, putting back his head to bellow out the first line.
‘Our centurion’s got a bigger stick than yours!’
The whole cohort followed his cue, roaring out the verse with sufficient gusto to turn heads up and down the column.
‘Our centurion’s got a bigger stick than yours!
Our centurion’s got a bigger stick than yours!