The Ten Thousand by Paul Kearney

rear I threw down my shield and ran.”
    There was a pause,
and then Jason nodded. “You did the right thing.” And he saw the surprise on
the boy’s face—and something else—gratitude?
    Jason looked the
two boys—for that is what they were—up and down. He wanted the Iscan. He liked
the pride and pain in the boy’s eyes. How to phrase it—they were friends,
obviously. The big smiler could go cry to the goddess for all he cared. He
might make a good soldier, but the odds were against it.
    Ah, he thought,
rubbing his aching temples again, let Phobos sort it out.
    “All right; I’ll
take you both. You, Gasca, report to Buridan the decurion. He’ll set you a file
to join. Iscan, you cannot take a place in line of battle, not without a
panoply. I’ll rate you camp servant and skirmisher, but as soon as you get some
bronze on your back you’ll join your friend. His pay is twelve obols a month.
Yours is half that. Do you find this acceptable?”
    Rictus nodded
without a word, as Jason had known he would.
    “Buridan will give
you your scarlet. Once you join the Dogsheads you may wear no other colour, and
you will be ostrakr, cityless. We swear no oaths, and draw no blood, but
if you lay down the colour without my permission, your lives are forfeit. We
flog for stealing from comrades. For cowardice, we execute on the field. All
other crimes are between you and the gods. Any questions?”
    “Yes,” Gasca said.
“When do we eat?”
     
    They drilled
first, or at least Gasca did, whilst Rictus watched from the eaves of the
encampment. All the centons had taken on fresh recruits that morning, and these
unfortunates were marked out by the vivid colour of their new red chitons. They
drilled in full armour, bearing spear and shield, and before an hour had gone
by the new men had red dye running down in the sweat of their thighs. While
they stamped and strode their comrades in the long files shouted abuse at them,
called them women, and offered them rags to staunch their monthly flow.
    Centon by centon,
the gathered companies came together on the wide, blasted plain to the north of
the Mithannon. There, between the Marshalling Yards and the Mithos River, the
numbers of the assembled mercenaries finally became clear. Twenty companies,
all under strength but still within nine-tenths of their full complement. Jason
was out there with the Curse of God on his back, barking orders and clubbing
with the bowl of his shield those slow to obey. Perhaps a third of the
centurions wore the black armour, and as many as fifty of the rank and file.
Possession of Antimone’s Gift was not a prerequisite of command. It was worn by
fools as well as heroes.
    The companies and
files came together one by one, evolving from discrete bodies into one long,
unbroken snake of bronze and scarlet. All their shields, except for those of a
few newcomers, were without device; when their employer made himself known they
would paint his sigil on the shield’s metal facings. The phalanx that evolved
from their marching and counter-marching was eight men deep and two hundred and
fifty paces long. In battle the line would shorten, as each man sought the
protection of his neighbour’s shield. As the formation was called to a halt the
file leaders and closers, hardened veterans all, were haranguing some of the
new recruits in low hisses. Nevertheless, as drill went, it was a good show,
better than any city levy could provide. It was, Rictus had reluctantly to
admit, almost as good as the Iscan phalanx had been. His heart burned and
thumped in his chest. More than anything else in this life, he wanted to be out
there in those profane, murderous ranks, to be part of that machine. His mind
could imagine no other destiny, not here, not now.
    “The Bull is drunk
yet,” one of the other skirmishers said beside him. There was a long cloud of
them, hard faced youngsters with slings in their belts and the scars of old
beatings on their bare arms. Many had peltas