LEGION by Jones Geraint

Author:Jones, Geraint
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-12-20T00:00:00+00:00

28

It was a long time before I was done suggesting the crude acts that Marcus could perform with the staff of Gallus, the legion’s eagle. As a child and a young man I was always trying to be a comedian, but those days had died when I had tramped on my father’s skull. Only Marcus could pull the jokes from me now. He was a window to my past. The parts that I wanted to remember, even with the pain that they caused me.

I hugged him so tightly that I thought his back would snap. ‘Gods, I have missed you.’

Marcus stood back from me. There were tears in his eyes. Tears on his cheeks. ‘I’m so proud of you, Corvus. Standard-bearer? Corvus, I’m so proud!’

‘Did you bring wine?’ I asked, uncomfortable with the adulation, even from him.

‘Forget the wine, brother, give me the stories!’

‘Wine,’ I insisted.

‘I’m taking a walk,’ I called to the sentries who were posted nearby – I wasn’t the only one charged with her protection. After all, I could hardly turn up in the latrines with the legion’s standard in my hand, could I?

‘These men are your friends?’ Marcus asked me as we walked away.

I shook my head. ‘I get different ones every day depending on which cohort has the camp guard, and I can’t talk to them. Legate would have their heads if they seemed distracted.’

‘But he’ll be all right with you drinking?’ Marcus smirked.

‘He loves me,’ I said honestly. ‘Calls me the hero of the Eighth.’

Marcus grinned. ‘Fear the Eighth.’

‘You heard about that?’

‘The whole army’s heard about that! The battle is growing famous, brother.’

‘What are they calling it?’

When Marcus smiled with pride, I could tell that the name was going to be a pompous one. ‘The battle of the night and day,’ he said with adulation in his tone.

Gods. Worse than I thought. ‘It was day, then night,’ I corrected.

‘Well, that’s what they’re calling it.’

‘Great.’

My friend looked at me sideways. ‘Shouldn’t you be wearing your bearskin?’ he asked, referring to the thick fur that draped from helmet over shoulders, a symbol of my rank.

‘Slaves are still cleaning it,’ I said. The previous man in my position had left his mark with pints of blood.

‘There’s nothing more important than the appearance of a soldier,’ Marcus replied. ‘It’s the four Ds, Corvus. Dress. Discipline. And dealing death.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘I missed you, brother.’

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