Free The Eagle's Vengeance by Anthony Riches Page B

towards his place in the cohort’s line, shaking his head at the cheers that were now echoing off the Arab Town transit barracks as the Tungrian soldiers roared their approval of his victory. His Fifth Century greeted his return by beating their spear shafts against the brass rims of their shields until Quintus called for silence, and the Roman settled into position next to Morban with a sidelong glance at the standard gleaming atop its pole.
    ‘How much did you pay to have it polished up that well?’
    The standard bearer opened his mouth to protest, but a familiar voice from behind him pre-empted his complaint.
    ‘Two denarii, Centurion.’
    The young centurion shook his head in bemusement at Sanga’s interruption.
    ‘Which you doubtless recouped handsomely with a wager on that unexpected display of extemporisation?’
    ‘Extemp …?’
    Marcus spoke over his shoulder, an acerbic note in his voice.
    ‘Extemporisation, Soldier Sanga. It means making it up under pressure, an ability to which I believe you’re no stranger given some of the legendary excuses you’ve offered up for your misdemeanours during the short time I’ve been your centurion.’
    Morban shook his head, stiffening his back as Julius called the cohort to attention and speaking out of the side of his mouth.
    ‘Didn’t make as much as a sestertius. None of these cowards would gamble on the outcome.’
    Marcus shrugged.
    ‘You can’t blame them, there were two of them against one of me.’
    Sanga’s voice grated out again.
    ‘It weren’t that, Two Knives—’
    ‘Call the fucking Centurion “Centurion” Sanga, or I’ll put another fucking dent in your helmet!’
    Marcus heard the soldier mutter an obscenity under his breath before shouting out the answer that he knew Quintus was waiting to hear.
    ‘Yes, Chosen Man!’
    ‘That’s better! Carry on with your little story …’
    ‘Morban was trying to get us to bet against you, and none of us was having any.’
    Marcus frowned, unsure whether to be flattered or annoyed.
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes sir. No bugger here’s going to bet against you in a sword fight, not given what a mad bastard you are once your temper’s lit, beggin’ your pard—’
    A sharp rap of brass on iron silenced the soldier in mid-sentence, and a moment later the command was given for the cohort’s seven hundred men to turn to their right. Lifting spears and shields from their resting places the soldiers swivelled into the line of march, ignoring the sniggers of the Votadini warriors who had accompanied them all the way to Dacia and back. Morban scowled at them, shaking his head in disgust.
    ‘I don’t know what that lot are laughing at, they look like a right bunch of mongrels.’
    The Votadini warriors were clad in and equipped with a widely varied assortment of Roman and Sarmatae armour and weapons, equipment taken from dead friend and foe according to need and circumstance. ‘Legion plate armour, barbarian dog caps, and of course they’re all wearing our hobnailed boots. Poor old Uncle Sextus would have been ripping his hair out, if he’d had any …’
    Marcus frowned down at him.
    ‘They do have a rather informal appearance, I’ll give you that, and yes, perhaps our last First Spear, the gods grant ease to his departed spirit, would have found their mixture of kit a little challenging. Should I point out that harsh truth to Martos on your behalf, do you think?’
    A warrior of fearsome countenance who had lost an eye in the liberation of his tribe’s fortress city from Calgus’s men two years before, the Votadini prince had long since settled into a state of contentment with his place in the cohort as an ally, but still kept his men apart from the centuries and guarded both their independence and their reputation jealously. Morban recoiled visibly, shaking his head vigorously.
    ‘There’s no need for that Centurion, I was just saying …’
    Marcus ignored the standard bearer’s grumbling and raised