The Valentian Campaign

by Marc Jones

  He looked around again and cursed this damn helmet. It restricted his peripheral vision. Where was that boy? The chaos around him was perfect – it would make it easy to do his job – but first he had to find his target.

  Ah. He could see the banner up ahead. Where the banner was, Cato would be and where Cato was then Aurelianus would be also. The young pup had been sent North to learn how to fight by the older dog.

  The only problem was the weapon. He just hadn’t had a chance to take the time to anoint the dagger with the contents of the little bottle – he’d been too busy in that mad ride Westwards. He’d also been in the middle of a roaring mob of soldiers who would have asked questions about what the hell he was doing.

  Aha. There he was. He reached down to loosen the dagger in his boot. It was time to start the dance.

  Ten men rode up with bows and there were another twenty following them. Cato nodded with satisfaction. On the one hand the Painted People had been given the minutes needed to make a shaky line in front of their leaders and the Eagle. On the other hand he’d been able to organise five sections of men, get their ranks dressed and bring up archers. And there was almost an entire Turma of men to the South, all riding up to meet him.

  He looked around. The men were almost panting with anticipation, their eyes alight. They could all see the golden Eagle now and they could almost hear the songs that would be sung about this day. Alt Clud was safe but there was another achievement hanging in the air above them.

  The last archers galloped up to join the others and he looked around at Corcorix, who was remounting his horse with several spears in his hand. All had been snapped off in the middle. Good lad. He nodded at Corcorix, who threw one of the short spears over at him.

  “Archers – loose!”

  The bows came up and he could see the Painted People ahead of him grimly raise their shields in an effort to try and alleviate what they were about to receive. And then the bows twanged in a chorus of death as the arrows sped across the gap between the two lines and then hammered into the shields. Wood and leather boomed and rung with the impact, men screamed as arrows penetrated the shields and hit the arms holding them. Holes appeared in the line, which thinned slightly as men desperately shuffled together to fill the gaps. Not enough. He needed more.

  “Loose! Empty your quivers as fast as you can!”

  More arrows sped across the gap and again tore holes and as the bows were lowered he spurred his horse at the enemy. He could hear Corcorix and the others behind him and as he approached the shield wall he stood up in the stapeda and threw his shortened spear at the men and the shields in front of him. He had a glimpse of a man crumpling under the impact and then more spears hammered into the wall. The hole was now a chasm and he rode through, his sword flashing from its scabbard.

  A man ran at him with a sword and the shattered remains of a shield attached to a bloodied arm and he put the poor bastard out of his misery by slashing down and shattering his face. A jab left and right and then he was clear. Corcorix was next to him and Poplicala not far behind him, with Aurelianus next to him, all with bloodied swords and a look of intent burning in their eyes.

  He wheeled his horse slightly to orient himself and then he saw the Eagle in front of him. It was surrounded by white-faced men with swords and axes and standing in front of him was a man in his twenties with a look of fatalistic determination on his face. He had tattoos on his face and arms and a spear in his hands. By the way that he stood here was a leader.

  The man stared at Cato and Cato stared back at the man. And then a slight smile crossed the face of the leader of the Painted People – it was not Erip, he was too young, it had to be someone else – and he raised his spear and bellowed a war cry of some kind.

  Cato urged his horse forwards. Fighting a spearman was never an easy thing. A skilled fighter could spit a horseman like a hunter with a boar. But a skilled horseman, especially one on a horse with stapeda, could outmanoeuvre a spearman with a lot of skill and a little judgement. His hand came forwards, pointing the sword straight at the spearman and he focussed on the tip of that spear.

  Time seemed to slow down as he approached and then as he saw the muscles of the spearman bunch in preparation of the thrust that was intended to catch him in the chest he moved his sword just a faction – and then he slashed, hard. The tip of the spear snapped off as the spear itself juddered outwards from the impact and then he was inside the spearman’s guard. He raised his sword, seeing the spearman start to drop the now useless spear and go for the sword at his hip and then he brought it down again. The man screamed briefly and then collapsed.

  The others were with him now and he charged at the knot of men around the Eagle. An Optio cut one man down and then screamed and reeled away with a bad slash on his sword arm from an axe, but the rest were now hacking at the Painted People.

  “The Eagle!” He was not sure how many voices bellowed it. He knew that he was one of them. He knew that this was a moment of madness, that he had a battle to finish fighting, but this was all that he could think of at the moment.

  The man holding the Eagle was a gaunt, older man with blue tattoos on his cheeks and a look of almost frothing insanity in his eyes. He seemed to be chanting something as he waved it around, a prayer perhaps or a curse.

  Well it wasn’t working because the knot of men was now a few desperate survivors. He could see that the shield wall had been smashed into ruin now, that the line was being rolled up in all directions now and that the Damnonii had fully joined the battle and were sweeping North.

  Cato slashed down, left and right again and then faced the man holding the Eagle. He gaped at him and then screamed something at the top of his lungs with the light of madness in his eyes. He smiled mirthlessly and then slashed down one final time. Blood spiralled up into the air and as the man collapsed he grabbed the pole with the Eagle. It gleamed at him and he felt it almost shiver in his hand. Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe not. He thrust it in the air in triumph.

  “Britannia Invicta!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The mud was cold. It was wet. And it was occasionally studded with unpleasant substances that were pretty sure to be blood or the by-products of men who died and then voided themselves.

  Belerix slithered through the undergrowth and then paused, doing his best not to either pant with exertion or throw up with disgust. This was not the best of nights so far. In fact it had so far been thoroughly shitty day of lost chances and unexpected violence.

  Every time he’d tried to get near that damn boy at an opportune moment of total chaos and stick a blade into him he’d been thwarted. Every single damn time. The battle had been chaotic and the aftermath – which should have been perfect – had seen Aurelianus in the company of Cato, who was not a man that he ever wanted to cross.

  But now the night was upon them and the battleground was dark and the cavalry had retired for the night near the walls of Alt Clud. There had been a lot of ale stored in Alt Clud and even some wine, probably imported from the South. And there had followed a lot of carousing, especially as everyone kept talking about that damn Eagle. He’d pretended to drink a lot, had slapped a lot of backs, told some true tales about the number of Painted People that he’d killed and then had laid low and waited for things to quieten down.

  And now the moon was low on the horizon and he was slithering his way towards the campfire where Aurelianus was huddled in his cloak, having turned down a bed in Alt Clud itself, which was admittedly full off a lot of Damnonii wounded and also some members of the legion who had received wounds.

  This whole thing had been a mistake from start to finish he grumbled to himself as he passed over a particularly unpleasant patch of land. He’d throw himself in the River Clud itself after this. He knew how to swim, unlike a lot of men and he’d easily be able to steal a horse, grow a beard and amble his way South to safety and a large pouch of silver.

  He could see the campfire right ahead now and he paused to pu
ll the poisoned knife out of the sheath that he’d so carefully tied to his shoulder. He had to be very careful from this point onwards. It would never do to die from his own dagger would it?

  And was at that point that a low, dry voice said, from about two pes away, “I wouldn’t get any closer if I were you. I’ve been watching you approach for some time now. You were on the battlefield today. I noticed you trying to get close to Aurelianus.”

  The voice was familiar. Corcorix wasn’t it? That damn Brigante. Where the hell was he? Belerix looked around carefully and hefted the dagger slightly. Perhaps if he could stab the damn man, throw his dagger at the boy and then run as if the Crone herself was after him?

  “Don’t even think about it,” the voice said in a tone that promised imminent violence.

  Belerix closed his eyes for a long moment. Well. He had failed. Not for want of trying. And now he was about to die. He mulled his options for a few heartbeats. And then he jammed the dagger through his own wrist.

  The pain was indescribable but he somehow choked back a scream. In an instant Corcorix was on him, kicking the dagger out of his suddenly nerveless hand and then rolling him over. “No! Who hired you? Where are you from?”

  But the pain was now giving way to a cold numbness that was gripping him from the inside out. He was so cold now, so very cold and he could see the stars starting to dim above him. He tried to laugh, tried to tell Corcorix that he was too late, but the cold was everywhere now and he couldn’t make his mouth move or even... breathe… or…

  Cato quite liked the view from the top of Alt Clud. You could see quite a way around the area. The entire battlefield was laid out in front him and he winced slightly at the sight of the mass grave being dug in the soft earth of a patch of land that wasn’t going to be reclaimed as farmland.

  The Painted People had been smashed. There was no other word for it. As their Northern forces saw the unfolding disaster to the South they’d broken and fled in all directions, and broken infantry was a dream target for any cavalryman worth his salt. The pursuit had been carried out by the fresh Turma that he’d despatched to the North to pin them down there and they had done their work well.

  With their forces being crushed that had left the mass of camp followers and there he had been blessed by the training that his men had been given. He’d been half-afraid that many of his men would have lost their discipline and gone after any woman that they liked the look of.

  The camp followers were instead now the responsibility of the Damnonii, whose leader, Constantine, seemed to have a very level head on his shoulders. For one thing he’d asked if Cato could send stone masons from the South to make the defences of Alt Clud stronger. He had a good point. From the landward side the place was very strong indeed. From the seaward side however it was vulnerable and Cato had a shrewd suspicion that Constantine was concerned about the Epidii, whose ships seemed to be so active to the West. Hopefully they were busy raiding Northern Hibernia.

  He stretched slightly in an effort to get the kinks out of his back and then he sighed slightly. Well, at least the immediate landward threat was gone. Constantine had been quite smug about that. Apparently the lands of the Damnonii were about to expand quite a bit to the North. And by the way that Constantine had set his jaw he guessed that a lot of people were about to be taught a valuable lesson in keeping their heads down and not even thinking about raiding Southwards. Not unless they wanted to join Erip.

  Cato looked down at the main hall of Alt Clud. Yes, he could just about see the upright spear in the ground there. And the ghastly object that was impaled on it. Apparently, according to the girl that Corcorix had found next to the body, Erip had asked to be killed so that he would not be a trophy. The girl had given him his wish. And she had been Erip’s own daughter. That said, he had his doubts. The face of Erip had had a look of such utter terror that he did not think that he had met his end with any great amount of steadfastness. No, he was convinced that she’d killed her father on her own to stop him from being paraded around and then killed. Which was a fair point.

  And which brought him to back to the Eagle. They would have to guard it carefully as they went back South. There was already a huge amount of awe about it. The Legions these days didn’t use Eagles anymore, but instead used the Labarum that Constantine the Great had introduced after converting to Christianity. But to have recaptured an Eagle that had been lost… well he had a nasty feeling that songs would be sung about him. Which was embarrassing.

  He sighed, nodded at the sentry, who made a very decent effort at saluting like a Roman, and then started down the path that led to the main hall. He had a lot to organise and he didn’t even want to think about the despatch about the battle that he needed to send to Gratianus. What he wanted to do was summarise it as simply and succinctly as possible, but a two-word report (“We won”) wouldn’t do.

  At least the bill for the carnifex-men was a light one. All the Turmae put together had suffered a grand total of 300 casualties. It had been far fewer than he had feared, but more than he had wanted. More than half of those casualties had been light wounds, but there would still be 50 empty saddles once the last of the very badly wounded were dead. He winced and shook his head. They needed every man they had.

  Then he raised his eyebrows and snorted. Given the slaughter that they’d inflicted on the enemy, they’d done astonishingly well. He was being far too hard on himself.

  And then there was the little issue of the attempt on the life of Marcus Ambrosius Aurelianus the Younger. He paused in his wander down the path and stared at the River Clud in front of him. He had a very feeling about that. He’d heard about the attempt on the life of his father and it had angered him. The attempt by that piece of shit Belerix, which Corcorix had spotted and stopped dead, had angered him still further.

  He didn’t like having traitors in the ranks and he’d ordered as much information about Belerix to be winnowed out as soon as possible. So far there was very little to go on. The man had joined the ranks near Virconium about six months ago. Apparently he’d been a fast learner, kept to himself, cooked appallingly badly… and had been an assassin.

  It was more politics, something that he hated. And he didn’t want to admit that sooner or later he’d have to get involved in. But in the meantime he’d detailed Corcorix to guard Aurelianus the Younger and he was very tempted to stick the boy on the next boat South. That said, he’d already talked to Constantine, who had agreed to send word to Deva on a ship.

  He restarted his stomp down the path. Complications. Too many damn complications. And he still had had no word from Gratianus.

  Corcorix looked at the Eagle at it shone in the son and then rubbed his chin. “We’ll have to guard it well.”

  “We’ll have to guard it so damn well that we won’t be able to get anything bloody done!” Cato replied acerbically. He looked at the Eagle with mixed feelings. Part of him was still in awe of what they had recovered from the Painted People. Part of him cringed at what the poor thing must have been through at their hands (they’d discovered all kinds of bits of rag hanging off it, along with what must have once been a necklace made of sea shells twined around one wing) and part of him realised that everyone and their son and daughter and half-brother would come out of whatever they were living in to watch it pass by. It was a symbol.

  He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment and then looked around. “We’ll give to a bannerman. Hopefully the Dragon banner will hide it a bit.” He looked around to see Corcorix gape at him. “What?”

  “Sir, you were the one who recaptured it. Surely you should be the one to bear it home.”

  Cato directed a long weary look at Corcorix. He seemed such a sensible lad most of the time but there were occasions when he seemed to have lost his mind.

  Just before he opened his mouth he heard hurrying feet from the passageway and then Constantine, Poplicala and Aurelianus burst in. “A message from Gratianus,” the latter gasped out as he held out a bone mess
age cylinder with a seal on it. “Apparently there’s been another battle. To the East.”

  Cato took the cylinder and looked at it sharply. The seal was that of Gratianus himself – his own signet ring’s crossed-swords stamp. Cracking the seal open he shook out the message, which was on a small piece of parchment.

  “’Quintus Gratianus, General of Troops, Dux in Britannia, to Legatus Legionis Lucius Tullius Cato, greetings,’” he read out loud before peering down at the parchment, eyes furiously scanning the tight-packed script. “Ah! Listen to this – ‘Hearing that you had gone on ahead to the relief of Alt Clud we heard of a second force of Painted People heading for Alauna. They had taken losses in their passage through the Antonine but were still formidable in number. We engaged them in battle. Our forces were drawn up on a great old hill fort belonging to the Votadini to the West of Alauna. They foolishly attacked our entrenched positions and we did great slaughter to them for little loss of our own. The remnants fled North with irregular cavalry belonging to the Votadini pursuing. We have reached the line of the Antonine and are assisting in its repair. At least one of my messages to you has been lost, but word has come of your own victory. Send word of your own battle. Strength and honour. Quintus Gratianus.’”

  He looked up again and grinned at the other two. “A second victory!”

  Poplicala blew his cheeks out in relief. “I was worried – I feared another gallop East to rescue the infantry. They must have done very well. I wonder where the battle was?”

  “The Votadini have hill forts all over the East,” Constantine rumbled. “I can think of at least two strong ones to the West of Alauna that could have been where the battle took place. Good – that’s very good. The Painted People have been taught a lesson that even they will never forget any time soon.”

  “You still plan to push Northwards then?” Poplicala asked shrewdly.

  Constantine smiled slightly. “The Epidii have fled South-West and the islands to the West of us are empty. True, the best of the land is to the East, where the Votadini and Venicones can squabble all they like for it, but… there are possibilities to the North for us. We’ll certainly be able to keep the rabble up there cowed for some time to come.” He looked at the Eagle and his eyes shone. “I heard rumours… but I thought it was just that, rumours. To recapture something like that… well. You’ll be off to Deva then? It belongs there. A great fortress. There or Eboracum. The Hispana built Eboracum, did they not?”