dressed. By the time he left the tent the men were already turned out in their sections and centuries on the parade ground. Eight hundred legionaries, five double-strength centuries rather than six normal ones because this was the First cohort, twenty eight-man sections to each century, the elite of the legion; the shock troops who would go where the danger was greatest and the fighting hottest.
He gave them a long look. Marius’s Mules they called themselves. Lean and tough: mostly men of only medium height, but strong and hardy. If necessary they could march twenty miles in a day, carrying the sixty-pound loads of their gear, rations and weapons, and be ready to fight a battle within the hour.
But on closer inspection the First was not quite the perfect fighting machine it appeared. He walked along the ranks with Julius at his side, pulling at straps to ensure the armour was tight and pointing out an occasional imperfection on a weapon or a piece of equipment. Not that there was much to point out. As usual, the turnout was exemplary. He knew how difficult it was to keep armour bright in the damp British air and the constant attention required to stop leather from rotting. No, it was the legionaries themselves who were out of condition. The eyes that stared through him as he walked along the lines were red-rimmed and buried deep, like slingshot pellets fired at a mud bank. The rank smell of stale wine assailed his nostrils. He heard the sound of vomiting from one of the rear centuries, but decided not to notice.
‘Your name and rank, soldier?’ he barked at a bleary-eyed specimen who stood out because he was taller than any man in his unit.
‘Decimus Lunaris, duplicarius , front rank, second century, sir.’ The answer was equally brisk. A duplicarius was a double-pay man, a senior legionary with a trade.
‘So, Lunaris. My orders were to return to the camp before sunset. Were those orders obeyed?’
‘Sir!’
‘They were, sir. I counted them in myself,’ Julius said helpfully. Valerius stared at him, but Julius had been as helpful as he was going to be.
‘You don’t look like a man who returned to camp before dark, Lunaris. You look very much like a man who spent the entire night drinking. How do you account for that?’
Lunaris opened his mouth, then hesitated.
‘Speak freely, legionary. You’re among friends here,’ Valerius said smoothly, allowing a note of sympathy to coat his voice. Lunaris grinned. He was among officers here, and he knew an invitation to walk into a trap when he heard one.
‘I look like a man who’s had an entire night’s worth of drink, sir.’
Valerius raised an eyebrow.
‘You specified the time, sir, but not the volume. The second century likes a challenge, sir.’
Valerius stifled a laugh. ‘Six merit points to the second century for enterprise, centurion.’ He watched Julius note the award on his writing tablet. ‘So, Lunaris, the second century likes a challenge?’ The legionary studied him warily. ‘I want the second century to be ready in full battle order in five minutes; scutum and a pair of pila , do you think, Julius? Then the second century will lead the cohort on three full circuits of the outer walls … at double pace.’ He looked up at the sky, which was now a deep, cloudless blue. ‘That should be enough of a challenge before noon.’
Lunaris had barely completed half a circuit at the head of the unit by the time Valerius caught up with him, but sweat was already pouring down the duplicarius ’s face.
‘That must be almost pure wine. You shouldn’t waste it.’
Lunaris looked across, surprised. Most tribunes weren’t prepared to suffer with their men. But then he’d heard this one wasn’t like most tribunes. Valerius wore his full armour and carried his shield on his left arm and a pair of the heavy pila in his right hand. Normally a legionary on the march bore his shield in a leather cover on his back, and, unless there was an imminent
He gave them a long look. Marius’s Mules they called themselves. Lean and tough: mostly men of only medium height, but strong and hardy. If necessary they could march twenty miles in a day, carrying the sixty-pound loads of their gear, rations and weapons, and be ready to fight a battle within the hour.
But on closer inspection the First was not quite the perfect fighting machine it appeared. He walked along the ranks with Julius at his side, pulling at straps to ensure the armour was tight and pointing out an occasional imperfection on a weapon or a piece of equipment. Not that there was much to point out. As usual, the turnout was exemplary. He knew how difficult it was to keep armour bright in the damp British air and the constant attention required to stop leather from rotting. No, it was the legionaries themselves who were out of condition. The eyes that stared through him as he walked along the lines were red-rimmed and buried deep, like slingshot pellets fired at a mud bank. The rank smell of stale wine assailed his nostrils. He heard the sound of vomiting from one of the rear centuries, but decided not to notice.
‘Your name and rank, soldier?’ he barked at a bleary-eyed specimen who stood out because he was taller than any man in his unit.
‘Decimus Lunaris, duplicarius , front rank, second century, sir.’ The answer was equally brisk. A duplicarius was a double-pay man, a senior legionary with a trade.
‘So, Lunaris. My orders were to return to the camp before sunset. Were those orders obeyed?’
‘Sir!’
‘They were, sir. I counted them in myself,’ Julius said helpfully. Valerius stared at him, but Julius had been as helpful as he was going to be.
‘You don’t look like a man who returned to camp before dark, Lunaris. You look very much like a man who spent the entire night drinking. How do you account for that?’
Lunaris opened his mouth, then hesitated.
‘Speak freely, legionary. You’re among friends here,’ Valerius said smoothly, allowing a note of sympathy to coat his voice. Lunaris grinned. He was among officers here, and he knew an invitation to walk into a trap when he heard one.
‘I look like a man who’s had an entire night’s worth of drink, sir.’
Valerius raised an eyebrow.
‘You specified the time, sir, but not the volume. The second century likes a challenge, sir.’
Valerius stifled a laugh. ‘Six merit points to the second century for enterprise, centurion.’ He watched Julius note the award on his writing tablet. ‘So, Lunaris, the second century likes a challenge?’ The legionary studied him warily. ‘I want the second century to be ready in full battle order in five minutes; scutum and a pair of pila , do you think, Julius? Then the second century will lead the cohort on three full circuits of the outer walls … at double pace.’ He looked up at the sky, which was now a deep, cloudless blue. ‘That should be enough of a challenge before noon.’
Lunaris had barely completed half a circuit at the head of the unit by the time Valerius caught up with him, but sweat was already pouring down the duplicarius ’s face.
‘That must be almost pure wine. You shouldn’t waste it.’
Lunaris looked across, surprised. Most tribunes weren’t prepared to suffer with their men. But then he’d heard this one wasn’t like most tribunes. Valerius wore his full armour and carried his shield on his left arm and a pair of the heavy pila in his right hand. Normally a legionary on the march bore his shield in a leather cover on his back, and, unless there was an imminent
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