Arrows of Fury

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The Tungrian centurions gathered round their leader in the warm afternoon sunshine, sharing a last moment of quiet before the fight to come. Marcus Tribulus Corvus winked at his friend and former chosen man Dubnus, now centurion of the 9th Century, which Marcus had previously commanded, then nudged the older man standing next to him, his attention fixed on the ranks of soldiers arrayed on the hillside behind them.

‘Stop mooning after these legionaries, Rufius, you’re a Tungrian now whether you like it or not.’

Rufius caught his sly smile and tip of the head to Julius, the detachment’s senior centurion, and picked up the thread.

‘I can’t help it, Marcus. Just seeing all those professional soldiers standing waiting for battle takes me back to the days when I stood in front of them with a vine stick. And that’s my old cohort too …’

Julius turned from his scrutiny of their objective and scowled at the two men with an exasperation that was only partly feigned. Rufius nudged Marcus back, shaking his head solemnly.

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