The Centurion's Son (Path of Nemesis Book 1) by Lofthouse Adam

Author:Lofthouse, Adam
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2017-11-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

August AD 168 – Legionary Fortress of Carnuntum, Pannonia

Albinus stood with Fullo, mouths open in shock and awe as line after line of Germanic warriors marched along the eastern road from the bridge, ash-clad spears held high, iron pot helmets bobbing up and down in the scorching summer sun. Chainmail vests shimmering beneath coats of bear and wolf.

‘I’m boiling my arse off in just this tunic; they must be sweating like a caught thief on his way to the chopping block!’ Fullo, as always thinking of the simple things, seemed none too bothered by the fact that King Balomar had brought what looked to be his whole army to a peace treaty. Instead he was shocked that they seemed to be wearing more layers than a winter legionary, patrolling a snow-topped fort in the distant northern borders of the empire.

It had been six months or so since the raid that had changed both their lives for ever, and Fullo had adjusted well to the life of a legionary. Much better than Albinus. His hands were now well beyond being blistered; huge open callus wounds ran along the top of both his palms, meaning that for the last three months of training, he had to wrap damp rags around them before he could even grip his weapons. His feet were in ruins, bones bruised, skin blistered and muscles screaming as he had been forced to march across what felt like the entire length of the Danube. His standard issue iron hobnailed sandals rubbed the tops of his feet, with sore patches from the leather straps causing livid red marks that crisscrossed their way up to his ankles, much to the amusement of his new colleagues in their contubernium.

His sword belt didn’t fit, the quartermaster had told him they ‘didn’t make ’em for runts like you’ so he had to use his knife to puncture extra holes to tighten round his skinny waist. Which wasn’t going to get any bigger due to the seemingly tiny and disgusting portions of food he was fed three times a day.

And that was before he got to the armour. Mars curse the blasted armour. His head was too small for his helmet, which again was made to a standard size, and couldn’t be altered. So, he could either tighten the straps just enough around his neck, and have the solid iron pot constantly fall in front of his eyes, and his wide and aggravating cheek pieces slap against his face. Or he could tighten the helmet right up, making the strap unvaryingly painful on his chin – so much so it had actually cut through skin and bled him one day – and of course, since he wore it every day, the scab never had time to heal, so he had to relive the unpleasant experience time and time again. At least when he did this, the huge slab of iron that acted as his neck guard didn’t dig into his back every time he

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