Say what you want about Nords, but you have to admit they've got good mead. My comrades seem to disagree, but I love the stuff. I guess growing up in Bruma endeared me to it. Oh well, more for me. And there's plenty of it. The Nord's baggage train was loaded with mead, beef, and the clearest water I've ever seen. It's just too bad that they're not the best cooks.
After we rounded up all the survivors, my century sacked the baggage train. We plundered, looted, and duly confiscated items by right of conquest. It's a tradition among soldiers. But that all pales in comparison to the real prize of the day: Skjora. Marcus, another of my Decurions, found her crawling towards the mountains. Stubborn bitch.
After we arrived back in Bruma, the XII held a small triumph, with my century at the center. We paraded our loot, our soldiers gloated, and our prisoners were mocked by the citizenry. That was when I left. I couldn't stand to see those warriors shamed. They may be my enemies, but I've been friends with the Nords for far longer than I've been their foe.
Now I'm sitting in my tent, drinking mead in my bed. Rank comes with some perks. A big personal tent, a desk, and a bed. A bed! This is how a noble goes on campaigns. Well, when they're in the field. At the moment, the blue bloods and their guards are occupying the barracks. They get a big fire, good food, and a bard. Meanwhile, us lowborns wallow in the dirt, trying to keep out the snow and ice.
"Centurion Belisarius." Oh shit. I'd know that voice anywhere. You know how your father was able to conjure up an authoritative voice out of nowhere? Imagine that, now make that voice deeper, and gruffer. As if there's a wolf claw stuck in his throat. That's the voice of Legatus Etruscus.
I jump off my bed and salute. "Sir! Centurion Belisarius reporting!" Why is my forehead suddenly cold? Oh gods. I'm still holding the mead. As I move to set down the jug, the Legate swipes it from my hand takes a swig. You could've just asked you know. The Legate grunts as he inspects the jug. Since when does the Legate drink? "Hm. Not bad for northern swill." Well nobody asked you.
"Centurion, I've heard how your crossbow strategy performed." I wait expectantly, studying the Legate's face. Unreadable, as usual. "I'll be blunt Centurion. I don't like it." Fuck. "It goes against tradition and it makes our soldiers seem weak and cowardly. We're infantry, not archers." Well there goes my position as Centurion. "But it works." What? "You fought off a numerically superior force with far more experience with a small group of legionnaires. Many of whom are still little better than raw recruits. I may not like it, but it wins battles."
He moves to my desk and picks up my helmet, inspecting its condition. I see the red scar on his leathery cheek scrunch up as he frowns. He turns and looks at me, dead in the eyes. His black hair is speckled with grey on the sides, and his eyes hold something in them. Experience, knowledge, and pride. Lots of pride. A dangerous combination. But he's smart. And he's one of us. Unlike his blue blood brethren, he sleeps, eats and shits with us grunts. He knows how we think. And we love him for it.
"You'll report to quarter master Octavian. He'll issue you some better gear, and assign you your new Centurions." My new what? "Sir, what do you mean?" I ask. "You're smart Belisarius. And you know how these Nords think. Your recent accomplishments require due compensation." He walks forward and pushes a new gladius into my hands. "You are hereby given rank of Tribune. You shall command the first cohort. And don't worry, I've already ordered the crossbows for your soldiers." He turns and walks out of the tent. As he leaves, he says "Congratulations, Tribune."
As he left, I stood there for several moments, trying to process what had happened. Tribune? A cohort? That's insane! He expects me to lead four hundred soldiers?! That's a fourth of our entire legion!,
Then, I looked at the sword. It's pommel and guard were made of a polished oak, strong and unyielding. The hilt had a series of divots, making room for the fingers. And as I drew the gladius from its leather sheath, I gaped in astonishment. The blade was made from a combination of Orcish and Nord blacksmithing techniques. It's orcish design gave it great density and strength, making it capable of penetrating even plate armor. Its Nordic traits gave it the ability to bend and flex, making it far more durable, and less likely to shatter under stress.
But it's greatest quality, was it's simplicity. There are no great runes etched into the blade, or symbols carved into the wood. This is not a weapon meant to be shown off as some officer's toy. This is a soldier's tool.
Before I even realized it, I had marched to Octavian's quarters, waiting to hear about the requisitions for my cohort. The required amount of food, water, alcohol, medical supplies. You know, the fun stuff. But I also had another matter I wished to focus on. I will choose my Centurions.
Octavian was working at the desk he had set up outside his tent. His hands were a blur as he wrote, stamped, and tapped them across the desk. Now, Octavian was not an average quarter master. He was a lowborn, like many of us. His parents were merchants, so he grew up around numbers, coin, and barbarism. Perfect fit for the job.
He was also the largest Imperial I'd ever seen. At six feet and seven inches tall, he dwarfed many of us. Not even most Nords were his height. And they weren't as large either. I'm talking two hundred and seventy pounds of raw muscle. Because of that, the Legate likes to keep him around as a body guard (among other things).
He's also the coldest and most uncaring human I have ever met. Even his appearance is ruthless. His face is hard and angular, with a wide jaw and a narrow chin. His eyes are green, and very large. He grows his hair out long, and keeps it in a horse tail, complimenting his already evil appearance.
With that being said, he's also highly intelligent. In a scholarly way. He has a lot of knowledge and know how, but has no experience. He's never even fought before. I can't think of a single soldier who enjoys his company. Even the Legate doesn't like him. He just happens to be one of the few attractive (I use the term loosely) gay men in the legion. And holy shit does he hate me.
"Octavian, I'm here to-", he holds up a finger and continues to write. After he finishes, he looks up and says in his terrifying monotone voice, "I'm well aware of why you are here. I've already completed the transactions required, and the crossbows will be issued tomorrow. We have enough rations for three months, and all our equipment has been prepared. Anything else?" He asks, almost as if he's daring me to bother him some more. Challenge accepted, arsehole.
"I want you to put into the records the new Centurions of my cohort." He scowls at me and dips his quil into the ink. As he hovers his hand over the scroll, he looks up expectantly. "Aggripa Scippianus." He begins to write with exaggerated annoyance.
"Clemens Grumianus. Claudia Jullii. And Marcus Hapeaus." As I say the last name, Octavian looks up with astonishment. "Marcus?" He asks. "The man who's older than many Tribunes and Legates? Why in the name of Juliano would you make him a Centurion?"
There's a reason I can understand his doubts. Marcus has been in the legion longer than any of us. He enlisted when he was twenty, and has fought in at least thirty different battles. He's currently fourtie-five years old. But despite his age, he's an incredible soldier. Sadly, he doesn't enjoy being a soldier. He's seen too much, fought too hard, and lived too long to continue this kind of life. But he has no choice. Money makes the world go round, they say. He barely getting enough to keep his planet alive.
"I'm well aware of his age, Octavian. Now do as I say and mark him down." He begrudgingly does so, then immediately begins to ignore my existence. As I walk back to my tent, I hear a commotion. Someone is yelling. A women, I think.
Wait. I recognize that voice. It seems our captive is finally awake. I smile as I suppress a laugh. "Well Skjora." I say, as I enter the tent. "Willing to answer some questions?"