‘When I got my vine stick last month I assumed I’d never have to carry a shield again in all my days…’

His friend’s eyes were alive with the prospect of the impending action. He was as tall as Dubnus, and if his body was less massive in its build it was still impressively muscled from the months of incessant conditioning since he had joined the cohort in the spring. His hair was as black as a crow’s wing, and his brown eyes were set in a darker-skinned face than was usual in the locally recruited auxiliary cohorts. A long cavalry sword was sheathed on his left hip, while the shorter infantry gladius, which usually hung on his right hip, was in his right hand. Its ornate eagle’s-head pommel gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, the intricately worked silver and gold polished to a dazzling brilliance.

‘… and yet here you are, hefting a painted piece of board again as if you were still in the ranks? Perhaps you’d rather go forward with just your vine stick for protection, eh, Dubnus?’

‘No, I’ll put up with the burden this once, thank you, Marcus. Those blue-nosed idiots aren’t going to keep their heads down for long, and they’ll throw everything but the water troughs at us once we’re through the gate. If we get through the gate. Now, you’re sure you don’t want to lead the Ninth Century forward one last time?’

His friend shook his head, gesturing to the front rank of the century arrayed behind him.

‘No, thank you. These are your men now. I’m only along for the ride. After you, Centurion.’

A sudden bray of trumpets stiffened their backs, calling the waiting centuries to readiness for the inevitable command. Marcus pulled on his helmet, his features suddenly rendered anonymous by the cheek guards’ brutal lines, then took up his own shield.