text: That evening, as the sun dipped slowly towards the horizon, Dubnus broke off the line of their march and climbed a short distance into the forest before lowering his pack to the ground. The fugitives had avoided the road for much of the day, moving cross-country on game paths that threaded through the thin scatter of copses decorating the mountain slopes. Having avoided the first angry heat of the inevitable cavalry sweep for the murderers of Perennis's men, they had returned to the road when the sun was quite low in the sky. The Briton gestured to the small hollow he had found, sweeping his arm in around to indicate the sparsely wooded land around them.
  
  'We need to light a fire. It should be safe enough here, hidden from the road. You look for some kindling, dead stuff only, mind you, we don't want to make smoke. And stay out of sight of the road. Keep within shouting distance, there are wolves in these hills.'
  
  By the time Marcus, limping from the pain of his blisters, had found sufficient wood to make a good-sized pile of dry twigs and sticks, the Briton had cut and lashed branches to form a spit above the spot where the fire would burn. A large chunk of meat was in place, ready to cook. He examined the wood carefully, nodding sagely.
  
  'Good enough. If you're wondering what the meat is, I cut it from one of the horses I killed this morning. If that bothers you, you have a choice – eat horse or go hungry, tonight and tomorrow. I took two pieces like this. While you think about that you can go and find twice as much wood again – we'll need to burn the fire through the night in this temperature. Thicker branches, mind you, to last longer.'
  
  Dubnus had the fire glowing hot by the time Marcus returned with his last load of wood. His boots were off, and he had the horsemeat turning over the flames. They sat a while in the evening's peace while the meat started to cook, drops of fat falling on to the flames and burning in bright flares. The aroma tormented Marcus's empty belly until he broke the silence, as much to distract him from his hunger as from any desire to talk.
  
  'Dubnus, who taught you to fight so well?'
  
  'My father. He was a hunter, killed animals for food and skins, then traded the skins with Roman traders like Rufius. Former soldiers usually. He taught me to fight, and to track and hunt … how to live off the country for months, with no need go back to our village. The land has everything required for survival if you have the right tools. Here, take a spell turning this meat.'
  
  Marcus shuffled over to the fire to do as he was asked.
  
  'So why did you join the army?'
  
  The other man's eyes clouded for a moment.
  
  'You ask a lot of questions.'
  
  'I'm sorry. I had no intention of …'
  
  'I joined the army because my father sent me to the Tungrian fort when he was dying, told me to ask the recruiting centurion to take me. He said that the army would be the best place for me when he was gone …'
  
  'Were you sad to leave home?'
  
  'Sad? Yes, I was sad. Leaving the land was difficult. Life in the army was very different.'
  
  'Hard?'
  
  'No. Nothing they could throw at me bothered me. My centurion beat me with his vine stick to get my attention and drum in the lessons. I told him to keep it up, told him I loved it. He broke it on my back and called for another one.'
  
  The big man sat in silence for a moment.
  
  'It wasn't any harder than what I was already used to. It just wasn't home.'
  
  Marcus fell silent, eyeing the meat critically. He could imagine the huge Briton as a younger man, little different from how he was now, silent and proud. Every inch warrior blood. What a challenge to his first centurion, a man expected to turn him from barbarian into trained soldier. The meat was starting to crisp above the fire's heat, almost ready to eat.
  
  'Dubnus?'
  
  'Yes.'
  
  'What will I do when we reach the Hill?'
  
  'Rufius has a plan. He'll tell us when we meet.'
  
  'When will we meet again?'
  
  The Briton shrugged indifferently.
  
  'Somewhere on the road north. Let's eat that meat before it burns.'
  
  He scraped the horsemeat from the spit and on to his wooden plate with a swift movement of his dagger, dividing it equally before passing one portion to the Roman. Marcus nodded his thanks, his nostrils flaring in anticipation of the meal as he gingerly sank his teeth into the hot meat, eating the first mouthful open mouthed to avoid burning his palate. The taste was divine after a day's hard exercise without food. Fat ran down his chin unnoticed as he ate. He nodded at Dubnus in between mouthfuls.
  
  'I never expected to be eating horse … or for it to taste so good.'
  
  The Briton swallowed a mouthful of his own portion.
  
  'You'll be surprised what you can do when you have to. Now it's your turn to speak of your past. Tell me about your father.'
  
  Marcus thought for a moment, chewing reflectively on his meat.
  
  'He was a good man, I think, but he never learned how to keep his thoughts private, even when they were a danger to him. Not even when my mother threatened to take the children to her sister's house in Naples if he didn't stop goading the emperor. His views were dreadfully old fashioned. He believed that imperial rule was a dead end for Rome, doomed to produce ever more feeble leaders until the whole thing came crashing down. He believed that a republic, and rule by the Senate, voted into power by the people, was the only answer. My uncle Condianus once told me that his brother was too liberal with his opinions, too quick to share his beliefs. He told me that my father mistook the indulgence of the last emperor for approval, and mistakenly believed that the old man would come to renounce the throne and restore the Republic. Which, of course, was never going to happen. Uncle Condianus feared it would lead to all our deaths, but I suppose I could never quite believe that his fears were justified …'
  
  He paused for a moment, remembering.
  
  'All the time the storm clouds were gathering over us, and I never knew it was happening. Or wanted to know, I suppose. I did try to speak to my father a few days before I was sent away on this fool's errand, after a dinner to celebrate my sister's birthday. We sat down for a cup of wine together after the meal, and it all came out again. His disgust for the emperor, his hopes of restoring the Republic. I warned him to be more careful with his views, that the new emperor wouldn't necessarily share his father's tolerance. I told him that he certainly shouldn't be speaking ill of the throne to a man sworn to protect its occupant with his life … but of course he wouldn't listen. All he would say was that he thought it was a bit rich for me to be warning him about loyalty to the emperor when it was his money that had put me in my fine uniform. And that was that.'
  
  Dubnus nodded, snorting quiet laughter past a mouthful of meat.
  
  'Fathers. They always have a way to put you in your place, no matter how big your boots get.'
  
  They shared a quiet moment before Dubnus broke the spell by pointing to Marcus's feet.
  
  'Show me your blisters.'
  
  Marcus put down his plate and examined the sores, swollen with fluid from the day's friction against rough footwear.
  
  'You won't be able to walk tomorrow unless we do something with these. Here.'
  
  Marcus looked at the knife questioningly.
  
  'Do what the legionaries do. Pinch the blisters, slice off the top and expose new skin beneath. It'll hurt for a moment or two once you get walking, then you'll feel nothing much. After a day or two you'll start to grow leather. Then get some sleep. We'll watch for two hours at a time, and keep the fire burning.'
  
  Marcus did as he was bidden, smarting as the raw flesh beneath his blisters protested at its exposure. He curled up in his blankets underneath the heavy cape, and lay for a moment listening to the howling of distant wolves hunting in the hills about them. There was comfort to be taken from the fire's protective circle of light, and from Dubnus's reassuring bulk as the Briton sat out the first watch, before sleep took him. When his time to watch the fire came it was uneventful enough, apart from tossing the occasional branch on to the blaze, and fighting off his urge to sleep. He was petrified that he would make a fool of himself in front of the Briton.
  
  At dawn the next morning, they were ready to move. Dubnus carefully brushed the fire's ashes away into the grass with his feet before spreading fresh earth over the burnt ground, cautious despite his eagerness to move on. He made one last critical examination of their surroundings then turned away, satisfied with his precautions.
  
  'We weren't here. March.'
  
  Marcus forced his protesting leg muscles up to Dubnus's speed, realising with dismay after a moment of torture that while the other man was setting a slow pace, he was gradually accelerating their rate of progress. Gritting his teeth and digging into his willpower to match his stride, he searched for something to distract him from the physical torment. Memories of Rome that he had previously suppressed flooded back to fill the emptiness created by exhaustion, and he stopped in his tracks, resting his hands on his knees as the memories cascaded out from the place into which he had roughly pushed them in the aftermath of his arrest and escape.
  
  His older sisters taking turns to amuse him with rag dolls as a toddler. His younger brother Gaius playing with the cup and ball he'd given the ten-year-old as a present, turning excitedly to grin his thanks. The girls would likely be dead by now, according to Rufius, quite possibly horribly so, and it was inescapable that the boy would have been killed out of hand. A family traceable back to the time of the Second Punic War simply expunged from existence. A pair of booted feet appeared in his vision. He spoke without raising his gaze.
  
  'Kill me now, Briton, save us both the trouble of dragging my weary body across this ghastly land. I have little enough reason to live …'
  
  A powerful grip took Marcus's rough shirt, pulling him up to stare into the warrior's grey eyes. Dubnus held him there for a moment, looking deep into his soul through its only window on the world.
  
  'You grieve for your family. I told you before, it's right to grieve, at the right time. Grieve now, and say farewell now. I'm marching north, whether you come or not.'
  
  Grief and rage tautened Marcus's jaw, making him force out his words between gritted teeth.
  
  'They're all dead, Dubnus, my father, my mother, sisters. My little brother!'
  
  'So Rufius told me. Was your father stupid?'
  
  'What?'
  
  'When you talked about your father last night it was clear that he couldn't betray his principles, but was he a stupid man? Unwise? Lacking in intelligence?'
  
  Marcus thought hard, grateful for something other than death on which to ponder. On balance, while being the first to accept that he was not the soldier his grandfather had been, his father had been no kind of fool. Bribing a praetorian tribune to send his son away before the impending storm broke proved that.
  
  'No … I believe he was not.'
  
  'He sent you to safety. Perhaps he did the same with his other children?'
  
  Marcus felt his heart lift a little at the possibility.
  
  'Perhaps … but …'
  
  'But?'
  
  'But I have to assume that my entire family is gone now, and that I'm all that's left.'
  
  'So you are the family now. You're the only keeper of your family's blood. And so …?'
  
  'And so I must do whatever I have to, if I am to keep that name alive.'
  
  The Briton nodded his head gravely, placing a hand on Marcus's shoulder for a second, in a halting effort at comfort.
  
  'Yes, you do whatever you have to do. And the first thing you have to do is to march. Now.'
  
  'In a moment. Wait for me, please.'
  
  He walked away from the path, feeling the barbarian leggings rubbing against his legs. A sore patch was developing between his thighs, skin unaccustomed to the contact of the rough homespun cloth. At Dubnus's suggestion he had rubbed fat from their meal on to the sores, which would harden, given time, and the discomfort would have to be borne in the meantime. As, he mused brokenly, would his heart's pain at the presumed loss of all he had loved in his past. What, he wondered, would his father and grandfather, both soldiers in their time, have expected of him? The answer came without conscious thought, as if familiar voices spoke in his memory. Take the chance you've been given. Survive. Continue our proud line. He turned back to the road, his heart lighter than it had been five minutes before. Dubnus poked him in the chest, hooking a thick thumb over his shoulder in the direction of their route.
  
  'Good. Now we'll march. No stopping until midday, and perhaps we'll buy food at a village. Even praetorians need food!'
  
  Smiling at the Briton's attempt to lighten his mood, Marcus stepped back on to the track, ignoring the pain in his calves and thighs. Another thought sprang unbidden to his mind, alongside the nobler concepts of protecting the family's survival. Revenge. He marched away to the north behind the seemingly tireless Briton, savouring the thought of making the men who had destroyed his family pay in blood for their crimes, no matter how long his wait for that revenge might be. He muttered the word quietly to himself, savouring its implications.
  
  'What?'
  
  He smiled bitterly at Dubnus's back, his thoughts suddenly washed clear by the heat of the new emotion.
  
  'Just something I was thinking about. A morsel best savoured at leisure. And I have plenty of leisure, it would seem.'
  
  Every step that the pair took to the north, through pale sunshine, frequent rain and once through an eerily quiet day of gently falling snow, made a tiny reduction in the likelihood of their being taken by the units searching for the murderers of the rogue cavalrymen. Still, even as they drew nearer to the wall that divided empire from barbarian waste, and farther from likely pursuit, Dubnus remained cautious. What sustenance he took for them from the land was supplemented with food purchased with Marcus's money from the farms and villages they passed. Dubnus skirted round each settlement with great caution, leaving Marcus in cover while he went to make their purchases. As they went north, the Briton quizzed Marcus as to the nature of his military experience. Before long he had evidently decided that while the Roman clearly knew how to run a century, the lack of any combat in his short career, other than the brief skirmish on the road to Yew Grove, greatly diminished any value that experience might have had.
  
  'You're a barracks officer. This place needs a man who can face the tribes with a drawn sword, not just a head counter.'
  
  No amount of argument, or attempts by Marcus to discuss the great campaigns of history and show his understanding of either strategy or tactics, could change the Briton's gruff opinion. As far as Dubnus was concerned, his new companion was quite simply not a fighting man, praetorian or not, at least not until he'd proved otherwise. The skirmish on the road to Yew Grove apparently didn't count.
  
  The strangely matched pair reached the Wall late in the morning of the ninth day of their march, a morning of fitful rain from a uniformly grey sky having given way to intermittent gloom and sunshine while towering walls of cloud rolled west in stately procession. The road from the south ran to the walls of a fortress set a mile back from the Wall before forking past its walls to the east and west. They halted a little way from the imposing structure while Dubnus drew a map in the dust with his dagger, pointing to each fort on their route in turn.
  
  'This fort is The Rocks, home to the Hamians. The next fort to the west is High Spur, that's the Thracians. To the east there's Ash Tree, that's the Raetians and Fair Meadow is next, again set back behind the Wall, home to our sister cohort, the Second Tungrians. Then we'll reach the Hill.'
  
  The last fifteen miles of their journey took them along roads busy with military traffic, and for a while Marcus quailed at the appearance of each new patrol. He soon realised that the troops they passed, recognising the colour of Dubnus's tunic, were more interested in passing snide comments than looking for fugitive Romans. Another ten-man patrol passed in the opposite direction, one brave soul calling out, 'Who's your girlfriend, Chosen?' once the distance between them was sufficient for safety, and his fear evaporated, replaced by a sudden feeling of superiority.
  
  'I don't see much discipline here …'
  
  Dubnus laughed over his shoulder.
  
  'Oh, they've got discipline! They're tough, better than most legionary soldiers, better trained, harder trained. All they know is fighting, unlike the legions where every man seems to have a trade first and a sword as an afterthought. They have to be ready to fight at any time, since their enemy is everywhere around them …'
  
  He was silent for a moment.
  
  'Their enemy is their own people. Can you imagine what that feels like, knowing that you might have to put your own brother to the sword if it came to war? You're not a fighting soldier, you wouldn't understand …'
  
  Marcus closed his mouth, considering the statement. Perhaps the other man was right. The only soldiering he'd known was in barracks, the continual watch over Rome that was intended to keep a boot on the city's throat rather than to protect it. What would it be like to face enemies both outside and inside the empire's walls, a situation perhaps as confusing for the local troops as it was dangerous?
  
  A mile later they saw more troops marching towards them, a full century in campaign array, each man with a heavy pack on his carrying pole and two spears. Dubnus stopped in the road, putting his hands on his hips and smiling broadly.
  
  'Those men are the best soldiers on the Wall. Those men are Tungrians.'
  
  Their centurion was marching at the head of his men with his helmet buckled to his belt, a big, scar-faced man with a full black beard. A distinctive white streak ran from forehead to collar through his wiry black hair. He recognised Dubnus at some distance and trotted forward from his place, clasping arms with him as if he were an equal before turning and barking orders at his own chosen man to halt the column and give the men a five-minute break. They talked animatedly for a moment or so in their own language before Dubnus turned to Marcus.
  
  'This is Clodius, centurion of the Third Century.'
  
  The other man nodded carefully, taking in both Marcus's native clothing and his distinctive physical appearance with a glance. Eyes hard with suspicion momentarily bored into Marcus's before he turned away to his men. The soldiers treated Dubnus with respect during their brief halt, their body language betraying his apparently dominant position within their small world. Marcus tried to fade into the background, conscious of the troops' inspection of him. He wondered what they would make of his worn boots and rough local clothing, his jet-black hair and darker complexion. Most of them had the fair local colouring, while only a few had black hair like Dubnus and Clodius.
  
  The century marched away to the east after a few moments, leaving them to resume their own journey. They had passed Fair Meadow, a mile south of the Wall, by mid-afternoon, its whitewashed stone sides standing out from the country around like a ship at sea. Turning north for a short distance, they climbed a shallow ridge, at the top of which the fort for which they were heading came into view. Shaped in the usual rectangle, it butted up to the white line of the Wall at the top of the next ridge, an untidy cluster of town buildings huddled against its lower rampart.
  
  'The Hill,' Dubnus confirmed.
  
  At the gate he was greeted with the same mixture of respect and deference that Marcus had noted on the road, and told the sentries to call for the officer of the watch. The centurion arrived quickly, listened to Dubnus for a moment, and then, apparently expecting the arrival, led Marcus away to the headquarters building in the centre of the fort. Dubnus nodded farewell, turning away to rejoin his own unit without any show of emotion. At the entrance to the headquarters, Marcus was delighted and relieved to find Rufius waiting for him.
  
  'Well, young Corvus, here you are, then! Looking a little thinner if that's possible, although it suits you well enough. Makes you look more determined, and that's no bad thing in your situation.'
  
  He dragged the younger man into the entrance hall, away from the sentry's straining ears, pulling a wax tablet from his tunic.
  
  'I have a formal request from Legatus Sollemnis to the prefect here, backed up by a quite astonishing amount of gold for the cohort's burial fund, asking him to take you in … no, don't smile yet, man, that's only a start. Even if he says yes, which I believe unlikely, I expect his First Spear will fight the idea tooth and nail. I know I would in his place. So, before we go in to see the prefect, here are the two rules that you must follow if we are to see you safe. One, keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking as much as possible. I know these people and you do not. Two, if you're asked a question, keep your answer direct and simple. If you strike them as anything other than what I've described, you won't get past the door. Understand?'
  
  The cohort's prefect was a dark-faced man, from the north coast of Africa by Marcus's best guess, and looked to be in his early thirties. He kept a remarkably straight face when Rufius handed over his message from Sollemnis, scanning the tablet for a long moment before tossing it back on the desk in front of the retired officer, one hand distractedly teasing his thick brown beard. Rufius stood impassively in an unconsciously adopted parade rest, uncomfortably aware of both the man's stare and his unquestioned power inside the garrison's small world. He made no move to retrieve the message. After a long pause the prefect shifted his gaze from Rufius, sizing up Marcus in a single glance of his dark brown eyes before speaking in a well-educated and reasonable tone.
  
  'So, it's better if I don't know his real name, he's officially declared traitor, his family are either all dead or in hiding, and yet the commanding officer of the Sixth still sees fit to send him into my care and invites me to betray the empire alongside him. He looks like all the other failures my First Spear rejects each year during recruitment, and yet Gaius Calidius Sollemnis commends him as "intelligent and resourceful" and asks me to take him under my wing. As a centurion! I'm not sure I have sufficient education to express my amazement …'
  
  Rufius, having taken pains to convince Marcus to remain silent, no matter what the provocation, had the luxury of time in which to draw out a carefully calculated silence of his own before responding.
  
  'Prefect Equitius, this man is a trained praetorian centurion. He and I fought together on the road outside Yew Grove, when tribesmen surprised our party, and I saw no lack of courage in his eyes on that day. He also wounded an armed horseman in mounted combat during his escape from an ambush outside Yew Grove. He also marched from Yew Grove to this fort in nine days, thirty miles a day. Yes, he is tired, dirty and footsore, but he has courage and determination that you and I should be grateful to call our own. With the right guidance he …'
  
  The prefect's calm voice trampled over his sentence, used to being heard with deference under most circumstances.
  
  'Guidance? And that would be imparted by whom, in your opinion? I've got a civil war brewing to both north and south of my sector of the Wall and only four of my centurions with recent combat experience. I've got problems enough without having to nursemaid an untrained officer. Besides, my First Spear would laugh in my face – just as you would in his place.'
  
  Rufius shifted his position slightly, weighing his last weapon of persuasion before throwing it.
  
  'Your chosen man Dubnus seems to think reasonably well of him …'
  
  Equitius's eyes narrowed at the name. He stood and walked around the desk, stopping in front of Rufius to speak softly into the retired officer's right ear.
  
  'Dubnus? Now you do trouble me. What part does our very own Brigantian warrior prince play in this tale?'
  
  Rufius thought quickly, praying that Marcus would remain silent.
  
  'Dubnus and his tent party intervened to save our lives when the barbarians attacked us on the road. Then he chanced upon me and the young man as we were being hunted through a murky dawn, by killers hired by the imperial appointee at Yew Grove. Only his impressive skills in combat saved us both from swift and ignominious death at the hands of those heartless mercenaries …'
  
  'I was coming to that. And you can keep the fancy language for the next time you want to overcharge Annius for a consignment of fish pickle. As I've received the news, a decurion of cavalry from the Second Asturian Horse at Cauldron Pool and two of his men, part of a detachment serving with the Sixth on attachment, were ambushed by this man and his cronies. Murdered before they had time to arm themselves. All three of them were left dead at the roadside, apparently, and to add insult to injury two of their horses were butchered for their meat. You're telling me that Dubnus was a part of that?'
  
  Rufius allowed himself to bridle slightly.
  
  'That he defended our lives at the risk of his own, taking us for innocent travellers beset by robbers, yes. That he attacked defenceless cavalrymen, no. These men were without uniform or insignia, and attacked us without hesitation. Your excellent chosen man saved both of our lives.'
  
  Equitius stared hard at the retired officer, his face set hard.
  
  'The decurion, in the reports I received, showed signs of torture. A small blade had been used to inflict severe pain upon him as he lay trapped and dying underneath his dead horse. The Asturians have sworn bloody revenge on their altar to Mars. You wouldn't know anything about that, I suppose?'
  
  Rufius shrugged, his face remaining impassive.
  
  'More robbers would be my guess, Prefect. Desperate to have the decurion's money perhaps? He made the mistake of abandoning his uniform and, since he looked like any other traveller, he paid a severe price.'
  
  The other man turned away, his face shadowed by disbelief.
  
  'Hmmm. And Dubnus brought him here.'
  
  'Only as the result of a request from Legatus Sollemnis, passed on by me. I work for him in a minor capacity …'
  
  The prefect spun back to face Rufius, speaking into his ear so quietly that Marcus could barely pick out the angry tone of his voice.
  
  'I know the capacity in which you work, Tiberius Rufius, assessing the Wall units' readiness and reporting on the situation beyond the frontier to Northern Command. Don't assume that everyone this side of the Wall is simple minded enough to mistake you for a trader. You should beware your secret reaching the wrong ears on the far side.'
  
  He paced away to stare out of the room's open window, his hair ruffled by the fresh breeze.
  
  'Very well, I'll accept your version of these unfortunate events, despite the fact I don't trust a single word. I'll also try to accept Gaius Calidius Sollemnis's request of me, since I do trust his judgement, and since I still owe him a very substantial debt of gratitude. As for the money he sent you to offer … I'll use that to buy my men some decent equipment, if those incompetents over at Noisy Valley still have anything worth bribing out of their stores. Quite how I am to discharge this responsibility is at the moment, however, beyond me …'
  
  He sat down behind his desk, surrendering to thought, idly pulling at his beard again. Rufius craned his head around, giving Marcus another warning stare of instruction to remain silent. At length the prefect spoke again, his sharp eyes boring into Marcus's.
  
  'I presume that you are an educated young man?'
  
  'Yes, Prefect.'
  
  'And I presume that you speak little or none of the local language?'
  
  'Very little, Prefect.'
  
  'What weapons training have you received?'
  
  'Ten years' training with the sword and general skill at arms, six years' horsemanship, and seven months' as a praetorian centurion, Prefect.'
  
  The officer got out of his chair again and walked round the desk to look yet more closely into Marcus's eyes.
  
  'Young man, while I respect the Guard's renowned abilities on the battlefield, I'm not stupid enough to suppose that you actually learnt any of the art of modern warfare during your time in their ranks. I hear that it is the practice these days for a certain number of the sons of the aristocracy to be bought positions as praetorian officers each year. I hear that they serve with the Guard for a period, usually in ceremonial roles, and are shepherded at all times by experienced subordinates. Shepherded, young man, to ensure that they do nothing to degrade their unit's fighting capabilities.'
  
  Marcus winced inwardly at the memory of his clashes with his former chosen man Apicius, who he had often accused of being too harsh a disciplinarian.
  
  'In return they earn the right to enter the army as senior centurions, usually over the heads of men with much greater experience and ability, and can then return to Rome after a short period of service. Lucrative positions are open to such men, in the urban vigiles or even as praetorian tribunes. Often, it is said, such young men do more harm than good in their first years of command, and keep more capable men out of the positions they have earned by their efforts and successes.
  
  'To be blunt, Marcus Tribulus Corvus – and trust me, I really don't want to know your true name – you have been trained to perform the tasks of a ceremonial officer. You know how to ensure that your men look smart on parade; you know the etiquette to be observed on palace duty. Doubtless you know how to address the emperor's favourite mistress should you chance upon her being serviced by a gladiator during your rounds of the palace. I doubt very much, however, that you have the first idea as to the requirements of an officer on active service. Hmm?'
  
  To Rufius's relief, Marcus kept his eyes firmly fixed on the wall in front of him, and said nothing.
  
  'Do you really want to make the attempt to gain a centurion's rank in this unit? Do you want it badly enough to accept any terms I place upon allowing you to convince my First Spear to accept your candidature?'
  
  Marcus hesitated for a moment, sought Rufius's eye and, receiving a nod from his friend, took a breath before speaking.
  
  'Prefect, my family is destroyed, my honour stolen, and I am declared traitor. This is my last chance to save myself and be of service to Rome. If I fail to convince you to let me have this chance, I will have little option except that of suicide.'
  
  Equitius laughed softly, but without malice.
  
  'Hmm. Stirring words. But I'm really not the person you need to convince.'
  
  The cohort's First Spear was adamant in his refusal, turning to glare out of the office's window at the rolling hills beyond the distant parade ground in the at-ease position, as if addressing a gathering of his centurions. The individual rings of his mail shone with a high polish across his broad chest, while his moustache curled in a magnificent glossy arc down his upper lip. He ran a hand across his head, reflexively seeking to smooth hair which had long since fallen out or been shaved close to his skull to leave him almost perfectly bald. A large man, but constant exertion ensured that his body was all muscle, given no chance to run to seed.
  
  'No, Prefect, no man in this cohort's one-hundred-and-twenty-year history has ever attained the rank of centurion without first serving in the ranks as a soldier. Usually for at least ten years, often a good deal longer. I have no intention of changing a tradition that has served us well for that long.'
  
  'I …'
  
  'Sir, with respect, I've seen combat beyond the rampart. I know what it's like when the blue-noses charge into the shield wall with their swords swinging. We never stop telling those boys about the superiority of our way of fighting, about the fact that they only need to jab the point of an infantry sword in four inches at the right point of the body to kill a man in seconds. We train them day after day to do just that, until they'll kill and kill again on instinct alone in the horror of a battle. And it still scares the shit out them to have some hairy great bastard swinging a battleaxe and running at full speed into their line. The main thing that stops them from running when they're blasted from head to foot with blood, when the man to each side has been either killed or is trying to hold his guts in, is me, and the other ten officers they know will fight alongside them to the death. Will stand and fight even if they do turn and run, even if only to cover their backs. They hate us and they fear us in equal portions, but mainly they respect us. Very few men of nineteen summers have that kind of leadership potential. Praetorian or not.'
  
  He turned back to face his superior, determined to give no ground to the suggestion. Equitius stared back at him, his expression unrepentant.
  
  'As I was trying to say, I agree with you completely.'
  
  'Then why ask me even to speak to him?'
  
  The prefect stood up, walking around the desk to join his senior centurion at the window.
  
  'Three reasons, Sextus. Firstly, I took that rascal Quintus Tiberius Rufius to one side once the boy had said his piece, and asked him why the Sixth's commander was willing to risk his life for this matter.'
  
  'And?'
  
  'The young man doesn't know it, but the legatus is his real father. Nor in my opinion must he find out, after the shocks he's had. Apparently our colleague in arms and the senator were friends in the service, tribunes in one of the Hispania legions, and when Sollemnis got a local girl pregnant, it was Valerius Aquila and his new wife who took responsibility for the child. And, as you'll be aware every time you look at the equipment our troops use, we owe him more than one favour.
  
  'Secondly, if we don't give the man the chance to try, he'll walk out into those hills and fall on his sword. I've seen enough men in that situation, and he has the same look in his eyes …' He paused for a moment, staring into space at nothing in particular. '… without hope, beaten down by circumstance but still determined to stay in control of his destiny. I have some respect for that attitude, as you may be aware.'
  
  A long silence ensued, until the centurion spoke again.
  
  'And your third reason, Prefect?'
  
  Equitius paused for a moment, his lips pursed in thought.
  
  'I just wonder if there isn't more to the man than we might suppose. You're the judge of men – you decide.'
  
  'And if I still decide against?'
  
  'Then Tribulus Corvus will have to work out his preferred means of taking his own life.'