need during the march while a pair of doleful-looking mules were hitched to a cart containing their tents and cooking equipment. Every man had an oval shield strapped across his back and a long German-style spear in his hand, the Hamians’ bows and the Tenth Century’s axes carried in thick oiled leather cases attached to their mounts’ saddles.
‘Kit inspection! Open your packs and lay it all out!’
As Scaurus’s appointed senior centurion for the detachment, Dubnus was taking his duties sufficiently seriously to have already become the focus of a deal of disgruntlement, as he chivvied Tungrians through their preparations to march.
‘Packs on the ground and open! I want to see every item nice and clearly!’
Walking down the line of men with Cotta at his shoulder, the retired centurion relishing the spectacle of soldiers being inspected by a hard-eyed officer, he stopped in front of one of his own men, shooting the hulking pioneer a meaningful glance.
‘So, what have we here? Bowl, spoon, sewing kit, spare hobnails, spare tunics, blanket …’ Feeling something inside the blanket’s folds he pulled away the rough material to reveal three spiky iron objects. ‘What are these doing here? Why are you still carrying caltrops?’
The soldier stiffened his brace and shouted his answer in the time-approved manner.
‘Centurion sir! Because you ordered us to carry them sir!’
‘But that was …’
The Briton shook his head and turned to Cotta with a wry smile, picking up one of the caltrops and showing it to the veteran officer.
‘They were told to carry these nasty little surprises almost a year ago when we marched on the Parthians, and ever since then they’ve been packing them away without a second thought. We’ll be rid of those, I think, before some stupid bastard puts one through his hand and can’t hold his spear.’
Cotta stared at the evil pointed device for a moment.
‘Perhaps we should keep them. It’s not as if they’re any sort of burden, and who knows when they might come in handy.’
Dubnus shrugged.
‘If you think so.’ He turned back to the soldier. ‘Very well, carry on.’
He walked on down the line, looking into every man’s pack and pulling more than one of them up for the quality of his equipment. Picking up one man’s wooden eating bowl he snapped it in two with a swift twist.
‘It was cracked. If your bowl breaks in the field you’ve nothing to eat out of. Go and get another one. You, hold his horse for him. Move!’
At the end of the line he found Arminius and Lupus, the latter doing his best not to be cowed by actually parading with the Tungrians rather than watching them do so but still pale with nerves. Leaning closer and lowering his voice so as not to be heard by anyone other than the boy and his mentor, Dubnus stared Lupus straight in the face as he spoke.
‘When the tribune told me he’d agreed to bring you along I told him I thought he was mad. And I still do. But if you’re set on it, and the man who gives me the orders says you’re coming along for the ride, then so be it. But if I don’t see you practising with that spear every day, twice a day, then you and I will be having a serious disagreement. If you want to be a soldier then you’re going to have to become one. Quickly.’ He stared at Lupus for a moment longer. ‘If you ever need my help, if this German oaf isn’t to be found, come and talk to me. I know what you’re going to go through over the next few months.’ Stepping back, he hardened his face and raised his voice to be heard along the detachment’s line. ‘Now, show me your equipment.’
He stared down at the display, shaking his head in disgust.
‘Your bowl’s dirty, your tunics are dirty and your blanket looks like a dog’s had a shit on it. Do better. By tonight.’
Confused, Lupus looked up at Arminius, but found a broad finger prodding him in the chest, dimpling his mail shirt’s ringed surface.
‘And don’t go
‘Kit inspection! Open your packs and lay it all out!’
As Scaurus’s appointed senior centurion for the detachment, Dubnus was taking his duties sufficiently seriously to have already become the focus of a deal of disgruntlement, as he chivvied Tungrians through their preparations to march.
‘Packs on the ground and open! I want to see every item nice and clearly!’
Walking down the line of men with Cotta at his shoulder, the retired centurion relishing the spectacle of soldiers being inspected by a hard-eyed officer, he stopped in front of one of his own men, shooting the hulking pioneer a meaningful glance.
‘So, what have we here? Bowl, spoon, sewing kit, spare hobnails, spare tunics, blanket …’ Feeling something inside the blanket’s folds he pulled away the rough material to reveal three spiky iron objects. ‘What are these doing here? Why are you still carrying caltrops?’
The soldier stiffened his brace and shouted his answer in the time-approved manner.
‘Centurion sir! Because you ordered us to carry them sir!’
‘But that was …’
The Briton shook his head and turned to Cotta with a wry smile, picking up one of the caltrops and showing it to the veteran officer.
‘They were told to carry these nasty little surprises almost a year ago when we marched on the Parthians, and ever since then they’ve been packing them away without a second thought. We’ll be rid of those, I think, before some stupid bastard puts one through his hand and can’t hold his spear.’
Cotta stared at the evil pointed device for a moment.
‘Perhaps we should keep them. It’s not as if they’re any sort of burden, and who knows when they might come in handy.’
Dubnus shrugged.
‘If you think so.’ He turned back to the soldier. ‘Very well, carry on.’
He walked on down the line, looking into every man’s pack and pulling more than one of them up for the quality of his equipment. Picking up one man’s wooden eating bowl he snapped it in two with a swift twist.
‘It was cracked. If your bowl breaks in the field you’ve nothing to eat out of. Go and get another one. You, hold his horse for him. Move!’
At the end of the line he found Arminius and Lupus, the latter doing his best not to be cowed by actually parading with the Tungrians rather than watching them do so but still pale with nerves. Leaning closer and lowering his voice so as not to be heard by anyone other than the boy and his mentor, Dubnus stared Lupus straight in the face as he spoke.
‘When the tribune told me he’d agreed to bring you along I told him I thought he was mad. And I still do. But if you’re set on it, and the man who gives me the orders says you’re coming along for the ride, then so be it. But if I don’t see you practising with that spear every day, twice a day, then you and I will be having a serious disagreement. If you want to be a soldier then you’re going to have to become one. Quickly.’ He stared at Lupus for a moment longer. ‘If you ever need my help, if this German oaf isn’t to be found, come and talk to me. I know what you’re going to go through over the next few months.’ Stepping back, he hardened his face and raised his voice to be heard along the detachment’s line. ‘Now, show me your equipment.’
He stared down at the display, shaking his head in disgust.
‘Your bowl’s dirty, your tunics are dirty and your blanket looks like a dog’s had a shit on it. Do better. By tonight.’
Confused, Lupus looked up at Arminius, but found a broad finger prodding him in the chest, dimpling his mail shirt’s ringed surface.
‘And don’t go
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