Attila by Ross Laidlaw Page B

– though of the chunky Parthian type the Roman stablemasters would insist on sending. More sensible to use the local African breeds, which were small and wiry, but better adapted to the heat. He sighed; some things the army never seemed to learn.
    Rising above the east curtain-wall of Castellum Nigrum – one of the chain of forts established by Diocletian to check raiding Moors and Berbers – the sun flooded the parade-ground with harshly brilliant light, instantly raising sweat on men and mounts. The valves of the south gate creaked open to admit the day’s first supply-cart, disclosing a vista of irrigated vineyards and olivegroves stretching away towards the distant snow-capped peak of Jurjura, thrusting above the blue rampart of the Lesser Atlas. An arresting, vivid scene, Proximo conceded, but not to be compared with the softer beauty of the British landscape. Oh, for just one glimpse of the silver Deva 6 winding through green meadows, with the mist-veiled Cambrian hills lifting to the west!
    Proximo walked slowly down the line of young men – many of them clearly nervous or unhappy – his practised eye looking for the slightest sign of sloppiness in the cleaning of tack or weapons.
    â€˜Rust,’ he declared with grim satisfaction, pointing to a cluster of brownish speckles on the otherwise bright blade of one recruit’s
spatha
. He leant forward till his face was nearly touching the other’s. ‘There are three sins in the army, lad: asleep on sentry-go, drunk on duty, and a rusty
spatha
. And wipe those grins off your faces,’ he snapped at the youths on either side who, in their short stay at the fort, had already heard this litany several times. Proximo grabbed the lead identity-disc hung round the culprit’s neck. ‘I want that sword clean by Stables,’ he went on, tugging the disc sharply, while simultaneously giving a deliberate wink. ‘Understand?’
    â€˜Y-yes, Ducenarius,’ stammered the other in mystified tones.
    Inspection over, Proximo dismissed the recruits to the care of the
campidoctores
for a session of drill. He felt a stab of sympathy for the frightened boy he had reprimanded; with luck, the lad would pick up his veiled hint. (Lead rubbed over intractable rust-spots on steel, magically caused them to ‘disappear’.) The cash-strapped army was forced to keep on issuing ancient, worn-out gear, Proximo reflected sourly: That rust-pitted
spatha
could have seen service at the Milvian Bridge. Unlike his predecessor (nicknamed ‘
Cedo Alteram
’ – ‘Give me Another’ – from his habit of demanding a fresh vine-staff to replace the one broken over an offending soldier’s back), Proximo believed that you got more out of men (and horses) by treating them with patience tempered by firmness, than by using brutality.
    â€˜Well done, lad,’ grinned Proximo at late parade, inspecting the sword-blade, now a uniform silvery-grey. ‘We’ll make a soldier of you yet.’
    Later, on his rounds, he dropped into the new recruits’ barrackroom. An informal, off-duty chat with the men was time well spent. That way you got to know who were the weak and strong links in the chain, who the barrack-room know-alls, who the likely trouble-makers, or informers. Also, by listening to soldiers’ grievances (often incurred by something trivial, such as the reduction last week of the daily bread ration from three to two pounds, the loss being made up with biscuit), you could often take steps in time to defuse a potential crisis.
    â€˜All right, lads?’ enquired Proximo, looking round the long room. Of the twenty recruits, most were seated on their bunks cleaning kit; the rest were crouched on the floor, engaged in a noisy game of
duodecim scriptorum
, a kind of backgammon.
    â€˜Can’t complain,’ volunteered one, ‘now that we’re back on full bread rations – thanks to you