The Sword of Attila by David Gibbins

all for today. Next week it’s barbarian culture.’
    A groan came up from the front row. ‘Not barbarian culture again, tribune. It’s all woad and tree-hugging and shrieking.’
    â€˜Know your enemy, Marcus Duranius. And don’t worry, you won’t need to strain your eyes in the library over a book, trying to work out which way is up. For research you only need to talk to your friends. Half of you here have Goth ancestry.’
    â€˜When do we get back to battles?’
    Flavius gave him a stern look. ‘The following week you’ll be receiving instructions in surveying and map-reading from Gnaeus Uago Alentius, a senior tribune of the
fabri.
He’s a retired officer who taught in the
schola
for decades and he has agreed to come in and teach you as a special favour to me, so you’re lucky. He’s a Gepid on his father’s side, with some Alan blood, so you can also question him about barbarian culture, Marcus Duranius. And he’s a rock-hard disciplinarian, so watch your mouth. Now get downstairs, drink some water from the fountain and get ready for some interesting items from Macrobius’ collection in the
palaestra.
’
    â€˜Yes!’
Marcus Cato exclaimed, punching the air. ‘The best part of the week.’
    â€˜Do we get to try them out?’ Quintus asked.
    â€˜That’s for the centurion to decide. Dismissed.’
    The class quickly collected their things and filed out past Macrobius, who watched the last of them go and then turned to Flavius. ‘You didn’t tell them that this was your last day.’
    â€˜My appointment to Aetius’ staff isn’t yet confirmed. But I didn’t want to leave with a flourish. After all, it’s only been six years, and Uago was here for more than thirty.’
    â€˜It’s an instructor’s lot to see the departing class looking ahead, not back at you,’ Macrobius said. ‘The reward is in the quality of the officer corps you help to create.’
    â€˜How’s the exercise ground been over the past weeks?’
    â€˜Some daintiness to begin with in this batch among the rich boys from Ravenna, but we soon ironed that out. Being in the same class as grizzled veterans from the frontiers does wonders for them.’
    â€˜
Corpora sano, mens sana,
centurion. I can see the effects of your training when they come into the classroom. Exhausted and battered, but sharper minds.’
    â€˜I’m looking forward to getting back to my own men.’
    â€˜Your appointment as centurion in Aetius’ personal bodyguard should come through with mine. It means that the old
numerus
will all be together again, those of us who are still alive. You’ll be at Aetius’ disposal for any task he may give you, as will I.’
    â€˜That’s the best an old veteran like me could hope for. And to serve Aetius directly will be a greater honour than any decoration.’
    Flavius nodded, and put a hand on his shoulder. Macrobius was past the normal retirement age, having been in the army for more than thirty years, but he was as tough and sinewy as many men at the prime of their fitness. After Carthage, Flavius had tried to get him the
corona civica
for his courage in saving two of his men’s lives in the battle against the Vandals, but because the defence of Carthage had been a failure he and all of the others recommended for awards had been passed over. Two years of hard campaigning against the Ostrogoths after that had added a fresh crop of scars to Macrobius’ body, one of them a livid weal across his neck from a Saxon cleaver, and these were the only decorations that really mattered among soldiers. But Aetius had noticed them, and had rewarded the
numerus
as a whole by choosing them as his personal bodyguard, the greatest honour that could be bestowed on a unit. With the
numerus
removed from the front line, Flavius had accepted a position as instructor in battle tactics