Thunder of the Gods (11 page)

‘He lost the eye storming his tribal capital, after he was betrayed by an ally who sought to take his kingdom. By the time we were in control of the fortress he’d killed a score of the enemy tribesmen, most of them by the simple but direct method of cutting off their genitals. Think on that before you provoke him again, because this is the last time I’ll stand between you.’

They found the barrack much as expected, but the floor was dry, and Lugos made swift work of the detritus that littered the room once Martos had taken a lamp from his pack and lit it, bringing a glow of warmth to the room.

‘Have sleep in worse.’

Martos nodded at the giant’s observation.

‘Not in these beds you haven’t. I doubt they’ll hold your weight.’

Lugos shrugged.

‘I sleep floor. Is dry.’

Marcus untied the ribbon around his chest that denoted his rank and took off the heavy front and back plates, stretching luxuriously before rolling himself into his blanket in one of the four bunks that filled the room.

‘We’ll get rid of two of these beds tomorrow, but all I want now is to enjoy the feeling of not carrying all that bronze around on my back.’

Martos, having shrugged out of his chain mail, chose another bed and emulated the tribune’s example.

‘You’re lucky. You might think that a man of my age would be used to the weight, but it only gets worse as the years go by.’

A note of curiosity crept into the Roman’s sleepy voice.

‘So why didn’t you return to your own people when the cohorts marched for Rome last year? You could have chosen to live quietly, filling your days with hunting, instead of accompanying us to this distant part of the world to fight for an emperor you can only despise?

The Briton was silent for a moment.

‘I could never have returned to the Dinpaladyr for any longer than a few days. Even during my brief return I was aware of the tensions building around me. I gave the throne up, Marcus, and named my nephew as my successor. My presence anywhere in his kingdom would have been a provocation, one way or another. The young king’s advisers would have seen me as a threat, and those who were unhappy with their rule would have sought to make me their champion. No good could have come of it. And …’

He fell quiet, wrestling with memories of his time as king. Lugos’s voice growled a single word from where he lay on the floor.

‘Family.’

Martos was silent for a moment.

‘Yes. My family.’

His voice had sunk to a whisper.

‘My wife and children died as the result of my stupidity in believing Calgus when he told me that we would share power, once you Romans had been driven off our land. My home holds memories that I do not wish to recall. My life as a king is finished, and now I am simply a man. Wherever you go, my friends, I will go too.’

He laughed softly in the near darkness.

‘And after all, without your companionship how else would I have travelled so far, and in such luxury?’

‘Legionary Sanga! Get your lazy arse out here now and bring your mate Saratos with you!’

Having only just laid down on his bed after a fruitless hunt for either alcohol or female company, the veteran soldier groaned, rolled to his feet and stepped out of the barrack into the cool night air wearing nothing but a fixed grin, followed a moment later by his friend who had yet to strip off his tunic.

‘Evening, Centurion.’

Quintus shook his head with an expression of disgust.

‘Put something on, you ape!’

Rolling his eyes at the change in his orders, the veteran stepped back into the stone room, pulled a sock from his boot and rolled it over his genitals before stepping out into the chill again, snapping to attention in front of the two centurions who stood waiting for him. Quintus thrust his vine stick up under Sanga’s scrotum, forcing the soldier up onto his toes.

‘Think you’re funny, do you Sanga?’

Knowing that any answer he could make would only worsen his officer’s already volatile temper, the soldier stared at the wall of the barrack opposite until the furious centurion pulled the stick away and paced around him.

‘Are you sure this is the soldier you want, Qadir? Surely there are men with more discipline and better attitudes that you could use instead?’

The Hamian centurion facing the two men shook his head with a slight smile.

‘Much as I hate to disappoint you, I am obliged to disagree. My need is for a man with exactly the blend of guile, sly wits and, when the need arises, ruthlessness that this man possesses in such abundance. Not to mention the equally important abilities with which Saratos compensates for his shortcomings.’

Outlining what it was that was required of the two men, he handed Sanga a sack, ignoring the veteran’s wounded expression.

‘Tunics. One for each of you. You’ll need them tomorrow if you’re going to blend in.’

Knowing better than to ask the question as to exactly what it was that would be expected of them in front of their own centurion, Sanga went straight for the practicalities.

‘This is a street job, right Centurion?’

Qadir nodded.

‘In that case sir, we’ll need—’

‘The money is in the bag. A leather purse.’

The veteran’s smile broadened.

‘Thank you Centurion. We won’t let you down.’

Quintus shook his head wearily.

‘Only I could get promoted to Centurion to a century that was home to both you
and
Morban. It’s either him fleecing my soldiers by getting them to gamble on which horse has the bigger dick, or you vanishing off for days at a time to drink and whore at the legatus’s expense. If I didn’t know better I’d ask what the—’

‘But you do know better, colleague.’

Qadir leaned close to Quintus.

‘That’s the reason why the first spear selected you to replace Tribune Corvus upon his promotion. He knows that you can be counted on not to ask that question, or to speculate as to the answer when, really and truly, you know you’re much better knowing as little as possible.’

Quintus nodded glumly, then turned his ire on the waiting soldiers.

‘Get out of my sight Sanga, you revolting animal. And don’t come back pissed up or I’ll take the greatest of pleasure in beasting you round this camp until your legs are so short that you’ll need a sock over your prick to stop it rubbing on the fucking ground! Dismissed!’

Scaurus looked over the parade ground with an appraising stare as the Third Gallic marched out into the wide open space, his eyes roaming over the marching ranks from the vantage point of his horse. With the benefit of a night in which to prepare for the parade, their equipment was every bit as well presented as he had expected, their armour and helmets gleaming in the winter sunlight. The legion’s centurions would have had a busy night of it.

‘Tidy drill, First Spear.’

The senior centurion nodded his head respectfully at the compliment.

‘We drill the men every day, Legatus. They practise battlefield manoeuvres for the first hour, just to get them warmed up, then we put them through all the usual practice: sword work, spear throwing, working on both distance and accuracy, defensive and offensive shield fighting, wrestling—’

‘Wrestling?’

The first spear nodded.

‘Wrestling, Legatus. For one thing, there’s a strong tradition of the sport in these parts, as you can imagine, and for another, I won’t have a man reduced to impotence when his shield’s been wrecked and his sword blade breaks.’

He shrugged at Julius’s raised eyebrow.

‘Yes, I know, if one hundred unarmed men face an enemy with a sword then perhaps only one of those one hundred has any hope of winning, and then only if he has divine providence on his side, but while they fight on they’re not running and making men who are still equipped look to their rear rather than engaging the enemy. We have regular competitions at all levels of the legion, from the centuries upwards.’

‘Perhaps your Tungrians would like to take part, Legatus?’

Scaurus turned in his saddle to address Tribune Umbrius, resplendent as ever in his gleaming breastplate and impeccably polished boots.

‘Indeed, perhaps they would, Tribune. Although
we
tend more towards simple bare-knuckle fighting. Tell me First Spear, how often do your men exercise their legs in the country?’

Quintinus looked back at him in bafflement.

‘I’m sorry, I ought to have been clearer. How often do they march any distance?’

Quintinus took on a regretful expression.

‘We don’t march in winter, Legatus. Legatus Lateranus said there was no point, since we were committed to the defence of the city. He wasn’t much for anything that would take him away from Antioch.’

The legion had paraded in its standard formation, the First Cohort at the right-hand end of the line with each succeeding cohort arrayed to its left. The soldiers appeared strong and well fed, and their equipment, while just as non-uniform as he had expected, with both mail and laminated armour in evidence, was well maintained to judge from the dull shine of oiled metal. Every man carried a shield protected by a leather cover in his left hand and a pair of practice javelins in his right, their swords having been replaced by heavy wooden practice weapons. Scaurus looked out across the open space, pursing his lips at the thinness of the ranks of men facing him.

‘How many men do you have available for duty today, First Spear?’

Quintinus consulted a writing tablet.

‘Two thousand, nine hundred and fifty-two, Legatus.’

‘I see. And the other two thousand soldiers?’

Another glance down at the tablet.

‘The majority of them are on leave in their hometowns and villages, Legatus. I took the opportunity of this period of relative quiet to send them away, as it was their turn.’

‘And the rest?’

‘Detached duty for the most part, although we do have a fair number hunting wild beasts.’

‘I see. So each of these centuries has fifty or so men on parade?’

The first spear nodded, and Scaurus held his gaze for a moment.

‘Carry on then, let’s see what the remaining two thousand, nine hundred and fifty-two are capable of, shall we?’

Quintinus waved his hand at the trumpeters to his left, and a blare of sound set the legion’s centurions into action. At their shouted commands, the odd-numbered centuries marched forward out of the line towards the review stand until they were thirty paces from their remaining comrades. Halting with a clatter of hobnailed boots they performed an impressively co-ordinated about-face that hinted at their foot drill being well practised. The even-numbered centuries had not been idle, each of them having quickly formed a protective testudo, their shields raised to provide them with the protection to their front and flanks, while the men inside the formation overlapped their shields to form a roof overhead.

The front ranks of the odd-numbered centuries stamped forward, a shower of practice javelins arcing from their line to hammer at the testudos’ shields with a rattle like hail on roof tiles. In one of the target centuries, a man in the front rank was unlucky enough to be hit on the foot by a lucky throw, hopping out of the formation in evident agony just as the second volley arrived. The wooden tip of another javelin thumped into his thigh, and as he started back in fresh agony a second weapon hit him squarely in the face, felling him with a boneless slump that told its own story. Quintinus looked at Scaurus, but the legatus shook his head solemnly.

‘Continue. The men will see much worse soon enough.’

With another peal of horns the opposing centuries reversed their roles, the odd numbers forming testudo with practised ease, while their counterparts hurled their own practice weapons across the gap between them, the rattle of their wooden heads testament to the shields’ robust defence. With all of their javelins thrown, the two lines reformed, still facing each other with the casualty lying between them, and the soldiers waited while a bandage carrier and his mates ran across the parade ground to where the comatose soldier lay. They gathered around the man for a moment, the stretcher bearers waiting while their leader knelt beside the man. After a moment, one of them staggered away from the huddle of men and vomited onto the parade ground’s surface, clearly unable to stomach the nature of the man’s injuries. Rolling his body onto the stretcher so that he was lying face down, the medical party carried him away, while the legion’s soldiers maintained a respectful silence. The first spear signalled again, and the two lines drew their practice swords.

‘I do so enjoy this part of the exercise!’

Scaurus nodded at his senior tribune’s enthusiasm, watching as the opposing centuries started their barritus, the war cry building slowly until they were bellowing at each other at the tops of their voices. Then, with a swift sweep of their vine sticks, the centurions on either side unleashed their men, the centuries dashing forward into a pitched mock battle that seemed to the legatus almost recklessly enthusiastic.

‘You trust your men to pull their blows, First Spear?’

Quintinus spoke without taking his eyes off the melee.

‘For the most part, Legatus. And I’ll admit that this scale of mock battle is a special treat for the Third, as a means of showing you that our men aren’t quite as effeminate as some commentators would have you believe.’

Scaurus shook his head brusquely.

‘You forget that I was the previous governor’s inspector of troops for two years. I wouldn’t have thought for a moment that your men were anything less than professional soldiers. And I suppose this sort of mass brawl does allow them to get rid of their excess energy …’

Scaurus paused, giving the senior centurion a knowing glance.

‘And a chance to even out any scores that might have been festering. Very well, I’ve seen enough.’

The horns sounded again, and the two sides separated and reformed their individual centuries, half a dozen men limping away from either side at the command of their centurions, some clutching their sides and one staggering, supported by another man. Tribune Umbrius leaned forward in his saddle, raising an eyebrow at Scaurus.